


Hot Summer Nights

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, American setting, Angst, Coming of Age, F/M, Good Girl Sansa Stark, Jon Snow and Robb Stark are Best Friends, Mentions of Cancer, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, implied depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25473025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: It's the summer of '78 and Sansa's not quite sure what to make of the world now her Daddy's gone. She keeps Bran and Rickon alive on grilled cheese sandwiches because her Mama doesn't cook anymore and she doesn't clean the house either. Robb's angry all the time and no-one talks about it and none of the boys at school look like Danny Zuko.And then there's Jon Snow - and he might be the most confusing thing of all.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, background - Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 165
Kudos: 477





	1. Chapter 1

  
It’s the summer of ’78 and Sansa’s not quite sure what to make of the world now her Daddy’s gone.

She keeps Bran and Rickon alive on grilled cheese sandwiches because her Mama doesn’t cook anymore and she doesn’t clean the house either. Robb’s angry all the time and no-one talks about it and none of the boys at school look like Danny Zuko.

Her obsession with Danny Zuko starts one balmy night in June, the night she sees _Grease_ in the theatre downtown. It’s the week it comes out and she sees it twice more after that. She asks Robb to go first because he’s been so blue since Daddy died and she thinks maybe it’ll make him feel better. He’s obviously not as enamoured with Sandy as she is with Danny because he yawns his way through it and tells her it’s pure cheese. He scowls and says he’s never taking her to the movies again. She thinks he’s dramatic.

Next she asks her friend Alys to go and she pretends she hasn’t seen it already. She thinks she’s been rumbled somewhere during _Hopelessly Devoted to You_ because her lips move along with Olivia Newton John’s and she can feel the burn of Alys’ suspicious eyes on her. Normally she would call her out on it with an eye roll and a laugh, but this time she stays quiet. She’s been treating her differently lately and it’s probably because her Dad’s dead and Sansa wishes she’d just be _normal_ again.

The third time she sees it is when Loras Tyrell _finally_ asks her on a date and says she can choose what they do. He buys her popcorn and she’s delighted when he seems to love the film as much as she does. She feels immensely smug and vindicated and her heart flutters when he holds her hand on the walk home. When they’re on her doorstep, he gives her a kiss on the cheek and she starts planning their future. She thinks they’ll have a June wedding. 

She’s been blue too since Daddy died and it’s nice to _have_ something. It’s nice to win something.

There’s a lot she doesn’t know—like the square root of Pi, or what’s wrong with her Mama, or what Robb does with Margaery Tyrell in the back of his beat up Ford Cortina.

But she knows that _Grease_ is a good movie and that Loras is a good boyfriend.

They’ve been dating for three months when Jon Snow shatters her perfect illusion.

Jon has been Robb’s best friend since they were boys and he lives downtown, in a crappy apartment he won’t invite her to. He’s annoying and broody and he wears this leather jacket which she supposes is kind of cool—but he’s still annoying. He used to live with his Mama Lyanna and he emancipated himself at sixteen, but he still visits her all the time.

If you ask her, Sansa thinks smugly, Jon Snow is a _m_ _ama’s boy._

She doesn’t remember meeting him. She couldn’t pin point a date or a time or how old she was. All she knows is she can’t remember what life was like without him. He’s just always been there.

Before she stopped caring about things, her Mama didn’t like him.

 _“That boy is trouble, Robb,”_ she’d hear her grumble, _“he’s never going to college and he smokes cigarettes and Reverend Wilde caught him with sweet Ygritte in the chapel after morning prayer.”_

Sansa remembers thinking her mother was a hypocrite.

Robb secretly cracks his bedroom window open to let the smoke out and lately she’s been smelling alcohol on his breath too and before Margaery, he was _always_ being caught with girls. At least Ygritte Wilde was Jon’s girlfriend when she was caught between his legs with her top off.

She wonders if she’s still his girlfriend.

When she walks into the kitchen, she sees him leaning against the counter. He’s tossing an apple in the air and he’s just always _there._ She wants to tell him to go away.

She ignores him as she heads to the fridge.

She grabs a bottle of water and she’s about to leave again when his low voice pipes up—

“Your boyfriend’s gay.”

She freezes, turning to face him with an unimpressed expression.

“What?”

He shrugs and tosses the apple again.

She can tell he’s not going to repeat himself so she huffs and puts the bottle down on the table. She leans on it, narrowing her eyes.

“My boyfriend is not _gay_.”

Jon takes a bite of the apple.

“He is.”

She frowns before rolling her eyes because who just _says_ that? Who starts a conversation like this?

Jon has this weird habit of just _saying_ things. He’s painfully honest and real. He never lies or spins honey tales or tries to flatter you. She wonders how he ever gets girls. Take her, for example. He would never croon about the sea blue of her eyes or the fire in her hair, the way Loras does.

“What is your _trauma_?” she bites out, “why are you such an asshole?”

Her temper flares when he just _smiles,_ his mouth twitching under his beard.

“Who taught you to talk like that?”

“I’m not a baby,” she says even though her voice is thin and sulky and she's folding her arms over her chest, “I’m finishing high school this year and I just passed my driver’s test and I have a boyfriend.”

Loras hasn’t been showing much interest in her lately and they haven’t progressed past a few closed mouthed kisses, but _still._ He just wants to take things slow because she’s a virgin and he’s a gentlemen.

Jon Snow probably hasn’t been a virgin for years and he probably doesn’t know how to take it slow and he doesn’t know shit about Loras either. 

“A gay boyfriend.”

She scoffs again and opens her mouth to argue but then things are suddenly slotting into place. Like how much time he spends with Renly Baratheon and the excuses he makes when she tries to coax his hand under her shirt and that weird way he stares at that blonde guy on the football team. She always assumed he was drooling over one of the cheerleaders but now she’s not so sure. 

She realises she hasn’t said anything for a whole minute and maybe she should listen—but she doesn’t because she’s stubborn and angry and barely seventeen.

“Yeah well…” she stutters lamely, “…maybe _you’re_ gay.”

His mouth just tips again, all smooth and casual.

“Maybe,” he shrugs and the reply is annoying because she knows he’s _not_ gay and he’s not rising to her bait. 

He pushes off the counter and walks towards her.

For some reason, she holds her breath.

He’s not particularly tall but he’s not small either and she wonders when he got all those _muscles_ , the ones she can see stretched under his black tee. He looks annoyingly calm as he quirks a brow and tosses his apple at her. She catches it out of instinct and screws up her nose, putting it on the table like it’s burned her.

“Just looking out for you, kid.”

He says—and reaches into his back pocket for his Malboro Reds.

“Don’t call me that,” she grumbles, turning to glare daggers at him as he takes a cigarette out of the pack. There’s a flash of white as it hangs between his teeth. He walks out and she’s left alone with her thoughts.

She opens the bottle of water she came in for and takes a sip. It’s cool and refreshing and she realises her throat was burning.

She thinks about Loras again and decides to add _interfering asshole_ to her roster of adjectives describing Jon Snow.  
  


* * *

  
Sansa _knows_ she should let it go.

She should trust her boyfriend and not let what Jon said play on her mind. She should ignore him like she normally does, putting him back in that little indifferent box she reserves only for him—Robb’s annoying best friend.

But she’s nothing if not competitive and she’s overwhelmed by this desire to beat him, to make him choke on his words.

She also didn’t become a straight A student without doing her research, without putting the work in. Mr Baelish says he’s never _known_ such a conscientious, hard-working girl. She’s a meticulous planner. She’s kept a diary since she was ten.

(Her last entry was dated 12/28/1977, one scratchy line that read: _they say_ _he’s not going to make it through the night, we have to say goodbye now_ ).

She doesn’t dwell on that. She has a mission. She has something to focus on, a mystery to solve.

She starts with her friends at lunch one day.

Alys and Myranda have both had sex—they’ve dissected it in great detail over numerous sleepovers—so she thinks they’ll be some help. Alys said it was fine, a little underwhelming actually, while Myranda insisted it was like someone was stabbing you with a kitchen knife and twisting it. 

They talk about it for a little while and they have differing opinions about different aspects, but they do agree on _one_ thing—

“Boys _always_ want sex,” Alys says while Myranda nods enthusiastically.

“What if the boy’s a gentleman?” Sansa tries, already deflating.

“No such thing.”

Sansa rolls her eyes because it definitely _is_ a thing. Her Daddy was a gentleman. He always held the door open and he always remembered her Mom’s birthday and bought her flowers on their anniversary. She knows Robb’s a gentleman because she’s caught him blushing when Theon grins and asks whatever he asks and he says _I don’t kiss and tell._ A few years ago, when they went to the beach and the sun went down, Jon gave her his jacket so she wasn't cold. She thinks he’s probably a gentleman too.

“What if he wants to take it slow?” she tries.

Myranda answers this time, sullenly stabbing her fork into the salad she doesn’t want to eat.

“Also no such thing. That’s just an excuse.”

Sansa sighs, sitting back in her chair and drumming her nails on the cold, clinical cafeteria table. This isn’t good news at all and her brows pull into a frown.

She decides to just _say it._

“Do you think Loras is gay?”

The girls pause, their eyes sliding to each other. They look like they’re communicating silently, considering what they can tell her to spare her feelings. Sansa wishes they’d just tell the truth.

“Definitely not!” Alys says.

“No way,” Myranda adds, her lips twitching into an unconvincing smile. “Why would you say that?”

Sansa shrugs, picking at her own lunch half-heartedly.

“We’ve been dating for months and all we’ve done is kiss. Why doesn’t he want to do more?”

“He’s probably distracted,” Alys tries, giving an easy shrug, “or just busy. I wouldn’t look into it too much, Sans.”

Myranda nods and then they’re sitting in silence and it’s a little awkward. She wonders if they’ve grown apart, if her father’s death _has_ changed her and made her grow up a little because she doesn’t find them so interesting and funny anymore. She doesn’t want to talk about the things they want to talk about.

She knows they’re probably trying to spare her feelings, but part of her also wonders if they want to change the subject because they don’t really _care_ that much. 

Either way, she’s no closer to the answer she seeks and no closer to making Jon Snow eat his words.  
  


* * *

  
She turns to Robb next and that’s when she knows she’s _really_ desperate.

When she was little, she was _obsessed_ with Robb. She idolised him, wanted to be just like him. She followed him everywhere, was even jealous when Arya was born. She was jealous he had to split his love between _two_ sisters now.

By the time Bran and Rickon came along, he was too old to play with her, and he had grown distant.

It’s been worse since their Dad died.

Something is going on with Robb, something dark and unspoken and lurking beneath the surface.

Arya, Bran and Rickon are too young to notice it; her mother is too lost to care. Sometimes she wonders whether she should speak to Jon about it, but they’re hardly close and she doesn’t know what she would say.

The point is, where Robb had once been playful and kind, he was now withdrawn and bad tempered.

She never knows what mood she’ll find him in and it’s _exhausting,_ living on the edge all the time. He’s the man of the house now, she gets that. He had chosen to go to a college near home so he could be close by and she wonders if he resents them for it. He works a part time job to bring some money in and he tries his best.

He had been living with Jon but he moved back home after the funeral. Sometimes, when he comes through the door at night and asks if Mom cooked dinner, he looks so tired, she lies. She pretends she cooked a nice meal for them all, rather than drank herself unconscious upstairs. She cleans the kitchen and hides the evidence of the grilled cheese sandwiches she’d made. Maybe she shouldn’t lie but she hates to see him so sad.

They’re all just doing the best they can and she knows he’s suffering, but she is too.

She _misses_ him—and she misses her Dad.

They’re in the garage and his head is under his car’s open bonnet as he inspects the engine.

She can hear him grunting, muttering something about the distributor, and Sansa rolls her eyes impatiently.

“Why don’t you just call Jon?” she asks because _he’s_ the mechanic so shouldn’t he be good at this stuff? “or better yet, just get rid of it.”

Robb’s head pokes up and there’s a smudge of oil on his forehead and she would laugh if the situation were different. But his brow is furrowed and he looks annoyed. _The same._

“Because I can _do it_ ,” he says stubbornly—even though he can’t—and then he adds, “I’m not getting rid of it. It was Dad’s.”

Sansa’s chest aches a little and she doesn’t push the subject.

She stays quiet for a moment as her hands find the wooden workbench and she hoists herself up on it. She swings her legs slightly, rubbing her clammy hands on her thighs.

“Are you still seeing Margaery Tyrell?”

As the words come out of her mouth, she realises how weird it is that he’s dating her and she’s dating Loras. She wonders if there’s some sort of rule against that, does it count as some sort of weird incest and does Robb mind and does Margaery and—

“No,” he answers. 

She’s surprised.

“But you really liked her.”

His head is back in the bonnet so she can’t see his expression but she hears his sigh.

“Yeah, she’s a nice girl.”

She waits for him to elaborate but he doesn’t.

“So why aren’t you seeing her anymore?”

Another sigh. “I just… don’t want to date anyone right now. And I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

“Fine,” it’s really not, but there’s nothing else she can say so she decides to just cut right to it, “I’m still dating Loras, but I’m worried he’s gay.”

From where he’s leaning over, she can only see the top half of his body and she watches the muscles in his forearm tense.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He pulls his hands out of the car and stands, gripping the edge of the open bonnet. He turns his head to look at her and she watches him raise a brow.

“I didn’t know you were dating.”

“You didn’t ask.”

He didn’t _care_ to ask, didn’t care to know.

Jon knew.

“Is he… you know, good to you?” his hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck and he looks rather sheepish and uncomfortable. She’s uncomfortable too. He’s not her Dad and they really don’t have to do this.

“Yeah sure—apart from the whole _might be gay_ thing.”

He gives a little awkward laugh. “Well. I’m sure he’s not.”

He says it the way Alys and Myranda said it—like they don’t have any idea and it’s just something to say.

“I thought Margaery might have told you.”

He rubs a hand over his face this time, leaving streaks of oil in his beard.

“Shit Sans, I don’t know. We didn’t really talk about that kind of stuff.”

She wonders if they talked at all. She wonders if he knows her middle name or her favourite colour or how her parents met. She wonders if she knows his favourite book or how he got that scar on the back of his knee or how when he was a kid, he had a goldfish and he cried for two months straight when it died. She wonders if they did any talking at all in-between all those fumbles in the back of his car or behind the bike shed.

She thinks she wants more than that from her relationship.

There’s not really anything else she needs from this conversation, anything she can gain, so she hops off the worktop.

She supposes Robb doesn’t talk to Margaery because he doesn’t talk to anyone.

She walks to the door that connects the garage to the house and touches her hand to the handle.

“I wish you’d talk to me again,” she mutters, “sometimes you feel very far away.”

With his back to her, she watches Robb’s shoulders tense—but he doesn’t respond.  
  


* * *

  
She decides to go straight to the source.

She tries to very subtly question Loras about his sexual orientation when she’s in the back of his Dad’s Datsun, the seats pushed forward to give them more room.

His mouth is on hers, giving her perfunctory, neat little kisses but every time she tries to deepen it, or takes his hand and urges it over her breast, or gives a breathy, exaggerated moan, he just smiles and pulls away.

After the usual thirty minutes, her lips are a little swollen and sore but there’s no movement anywhere else and he sighs, running a hand through his hair and sitting back. She sits up too, adjusting the hem of the dress that has stayed firmly on her body, and crossing her arms over her chest.

 _Are you gay?_ She’s just about to say it, to just _ask,_ when she notices the sad expression on his face.

His shoulders are tense and his jaw clenched, his brows pulled into a worried frown. She stares at him, wondering why she’s never seen that expression before. Then she realises—she probably _has,_ but she hasn’t cared. She’s been so wrapped up in herself, in what he can offer her and how he can make her feel better, she’s paid little attention to him.

It’s like a lightbulb moment when she realises Jon was right.

Her boyfriend is definitely gay—and she’ll wait for him to tell her, because it's his to tell. 

He must see how she’s deep in thought because he asks, “you okay?”

She smiles, because he _always_ pays attention.

“Yeah, just thinking about something Jon said,” she replies automatically, the words escaping her without permission.

“Jon?”

She shakes her head, realising she’s never mentioned him before. “Oh, no-one. My brother’s best friend.”

Loras seems to think for a minute before he clicks his fingers.

“Oh yeah, I think I’ve seen him around with your brother. Pretty cool, gives off bad boy vibes? Not so tall, dark and handsome?”

He looks like he didn’t mean to say that last one, looks a little sheepish, and Sansa’s lips twitch.

“Sure, if you like that kind of thing,” she grumbles.

Jon has the look but he's not a bad boy at all. He’s always polite to Mama, even when she’s rude to him, and he spends hours tinkering with cars with Arya and he even reads with Bran and plays with Rickon.

Then she realises she doesn’t know what he’s like with girls and maybe he’s bad to them. Somehow she doesn’t think so.

He is quite handsome too, she supposes. He dresses well and has straight, white teeth and dark hair like Danny Zuko. The revelation makes her chest feel funny.

Loras is still looking like Jon hung the moon and stars so she rolls her eyes and thinks maybe she should set them up.

But then—Jon likes girls and the idea that he might _not_ like girls inexplicably annoys her.

She just chalks it up to a long day—and the fact that everything about Jon Snow annoys her.  
  


* * *

  
Sansa’s investigation officially comes to an end when she finds Loras kissing Renly Baratheon under the bleachers on game night.

She blinks for a moment, as though if she stares hard enough, the picture will fade before her eyes. It doesn’t, of course, and she slowly turns around and walks back to her seat.

Once she’s home, she sits cross legged on her bed and tries to process everything.

She’s surprised at how little she feels. She feels sad, but then she’s felt sad since December. There are no tears burning her eyes, no dryness in her throat. She’ll wax poetic about the woes of first love to Alys and Myranda tomorrow, but really, it doesn’t feel like a major loss.

If she’s honest with herself, she never really cared for Loras Tyrell. Maybe she should feel annoyed, but it’s only her pride that’s hurt. He’s a good guy and she wants him to be happy and Renly seems to make him happy. They're a cute couple and it must be horrible—to have to hide who you are, to be persecuted simply for who you love. They don’t deserve that. She wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

So she feels sorry for them but she feels sorry for herself too—because Robb is different and her Dad’s dead and her boyfriend is gay.

And Jon Snow is the only person who cared enough to tell her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this started because I wanted to write something short and fluffy and it turned out... not that at all. Hope you liked the vibe!! I love 70s aesthetic. I've got 10,000 words written already so I'm guessing around 4/5 chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sansa was young, her mother always looked so put together.

She had big hair and shiny red lips and she always wore a diamond necklace. She would make idle chit chat with the other moms when they passed each other in the supermarket and she’d always have dinner on the table when they came home.

Lyanna Snow called her _elegant_ once and Sansa agreed.

But the summer Sansa turns seventeen, her mama stops brushing her hair and wearing that lipstick and then she stops going out altogether. She doesn’t pack Bran’s lunchbox anymore or help Rickon with his homework or take Arya to hockey practice. She doesn’t kiss her on the cheek in the mornings.

She knows it’s because she’s lost Ned. They were childhood sweethearts and maybe she doesn’t know how to be in the world without him either.

But she still has five children and when she’s feeling bitter, Sansa wonders why that’s not enough. Surely that should make her happy, make her move.

She has more patience than Robb at least—and she’s still half asleep when she walks in on him shouting at her.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” he’s asking her, his voice raised.

Sansa stiffens, her eyes flitting suspiciously between the two. 

Her mother doesn’t reply. She’s hunched over the kitchen sink and wearing a ratty robe. It doesn’t look like the one she used to wear, all silky and pale blue, and her eyes are closed.

“Robb, what’s going on?”

Robb’s eyes fly to hers, crazed and wild.

“She was supposed to pick Arya up from Hot Pie’s,” he accuses her, “she was waiting there for hours.”

“I forgot,” Catelyn’s voice is small and thin.

Robb is unmoved.

“You _forgot_?” he rages, “you _forgot_ about your child?”

There are wrinkles around her eyes and her chapped lips are set in a thin line and she looks so _sad._

“Jesus, Robb. Lay off a little,” Sansa says quietly, her skin prickling.

He blinks at her and he looks sad too.

“You’re kidding me,” he says, deadpan, and then he gets a little hysterical, “ _lay off?_ I miss him too, but this has gone on long enough. It needs to stop—all of it. No more drink. No more of this. You stop it. You stop it and you start being a mom.” 

She just grunts in response, reaching beneath the sink to grab a bottle of cheap red wine. She opens it and goes to take a swig when Robb grabs it from her hands.

“God- _damn-_ it, Mama!”

She flinches as he yells, dark red liquid spilling over her chin before he hurls it against the wall. It looks a little like blood and it makes Sansa feel queasy.

She gasps as the bottle smashes, sending splinters of glass flying across the kitchen floor.

It’s silent for a moment as Sansa’s eyes burn and Robb runs a shaky hand over his face. Catelyn doesn’t react. She doesn’t shout at him or apologise or promise to do better. She just starts to take a step back and Sansa grabs her elbow, manoeuvring her so her bare feet don’t touch the glass.

Once she’s pushed her out of the kitchen, Sansa walks back in and sees Robb quietly grabbing a dustpan and brush from under the sink. There are more wine bottles under there and he sighs, his jaw clenching.

“It’s okay,” she says softly, holding her hand out, “I’ll do it.”

He shakes his head, running a hand through his unruly curls.

“No, it’s my fault.”

But it _isn’t_ his fault, none of this is his fault, and she wants him to know that. She doesn’t quite know how to say it so she just grabs the spare dustpan.

They clean it up in silence and after ten minutes, she gives his hand a gentle squeeze.  
  


* * *

  
Sansa finds Jon sitting on their porch step one evening, smoking a cigarette.

She closes the back door and sits next to him, rubbing the tops of her arms against the cold. It’s summer and the nights are normally pleasant, but today there’s a chill in the air.

“Loras is gay,” she says, her voice dull and a little empty.

Jon turns to look at her.

He just stares at her for a moment before he arches a brow and blows some smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry, kid,” he sighs, returning his gaze ahead.

It sounds like he means it.

“Why? You were right.”

“It’s still shit. For both of you. Everyone deserves to be happy.”

She nods because he’s right.

“He hasn’t told me yet.”

Jon shrugs. “He will in his own time.”

“How did you know?”

He takes another drag of his cigarette and flicks the ash.

“It’s a small town,” he says simply, “you know Margaery’s been hanging around.”

Sometimes Sansa hates how small it is. You’re born here, you live here, you die here. You have kids and they repeat the same cycle. It’s suffocating and miserable.

She wonders why he hasn’t left.

“What’s the deal with that?” she asks, “I thought Robb really liked her but he said he’s not seeing her anymore.”

Jon seems to stiffen. She watches a muscle near his ear tick as he clenches his jaw.

He skirts around the question. 

“You should be nice to your brother,” he says quietly, “he’s got a lot on his mind.”

Her temper flares a little because they’d been doing so well and then he had to go and ruin it by being so _patronising._

“I’m always nice to him,” she frowns, “he’s the one who’s not nice.”

He presses the heel of his palm into his eyes, the cigarette hanging between his fingers. 

She fights back her wince. She might as well have said _he started it,_ and she feels very childish all of a sudden.

She hates that he makes her feel that way.

Jon doesn’t reply. He’s back to silent and brooding, that shuttered expression on his face. She takes a moment to look at him. There’s something different about him but she can’t put her finger on it. Half of his face is bathed in moonlight and he looks softer and much older than his twenty years. For some reason, she wants him to see her differently too. She shakes her head and puts it down to growing up and losing someone she loves. She’s not a child anymore, not naïve and innocent.

“He yelled at my mom today.”

He looks at her again, a little frown between his brows.

“She’s not doing any better, huh?”

Sansa shakes her head. It makes her ponytail shake and it feels too tight, gives her a headache. She wants to take it out. She doesn’t. She’s used to looking perfect, not a strand out of place. That gives her a headache too.

They sit in silence for a moment and it’s strangely comfortable.

Normally, she’d feel the urge to fill the space, to spew word vomit about her day or rant about something that annoys her.

Normally, she doesn’t like to live in her own head.

But with Jon, the silence is easy. She envies that—the calm air he seems to carry with him.

“Jon,” she whispers eventually.

He gives a little hum and turns to look at her. His dark eyes search her face as he blows some smoke away from her.

“Do you miss your dad?”

He pauses, a brief look of surprise sparking through his eyes. She’s never asked him that before. This is probably the most they’ve spoken without arguing since she was a little girl. 

She doesn’t know why she asked him that.

Maybe she shouldn’t have.

Maybe it’s inappropriate to ask because Jon’s daddy didn’t die, he left. Rhaegar Targaryen was a wealthy, married businessman who swept through town one day like a hurricane, leaving devastation in his wake. Lyanna was only sixteen when she fell under his spell. Sansa thinks something should have been said about a twenty four year old man knocking up a sixteen year old—but nothing ever was.

“Sometimes,” he shrugs eventually, “but I don’t remember him much.”

Apparently he’d made some half-hearted attempts at visitation for the first few years of Jon’s life, but he’d been absent ever since.

“I miss mine,” she says quietly, the words sparking an ache in her chest, “so much.”

She’s never said that before, not out loud.

Her eyes and throat start burning and she turns her face away, horrified.

She can feel the heat of Jon’s eyes on her.

“Sansa,” his voice is so low and so deep and it makes the ache intensify.

She can’t look at him because she thinks she’s going to cry and she’ll simply _die_ if Jon Snow sees her cry.

But then his thumb and forefinger are gently pinching her chin and turning her face. She swallows past the lump in her throat, her breath shallow as he cups her cheek. His eyes are dark steel as they flit over her face and he’s never _looked_ at her that way before.

“It’s alright,” he says—even though it’s not, “you’re not alone.”

She nods and lets the first tear fall.

He wipes it away with his thumb and then he pulls away. She burns with the inexplicable need to feel his hands on her again.

“You’ll be okay, kid.”

He adds.

His voice is kind but she _really_ wishes he hadn’t called her that.  
  


* * *

  
Loras tells her he’s gay on a Sunday.

He asks her to the diner around the corner and she slurps on her pink milkshake as he sits in the booth opposite her.

He looks nervous.

His eyes are flitting around skittishly and he keeps rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans. She almost wants to just say she _knows,_ to put him out of his misery, but she understands it’s his secret to tell. 

“You know I really care about you…”

_Here it comes._

“I care about you too.”

He nods and clearly can’t decide what to do with his hands. His fingers flex before he finally places his palms on the table.

“I have something I need to say, something I’ve been hiding for a long time.”

She nods, fiddling with the straw in her drink. 

“Sure.”

She waits patiently. After a few moments of fidgeting, Loras takes a breath and her chest aches when she see tears in his eyes.

“Sansa, I’m gay.”

He says it quickly in one rush of breath and then there’s a tear rolling down his flushed cheek.

Sansa reaches for him, placing a hand over his on the table.

“I know,” she says gently, “it’s okay.”

He doesn’t look surprised, more devastated and resigned, and her heart goes out to him. No-one should have to feel that way and she wishes the rest of society weren’t so judgemental. She wishes he didn’t have to hide.

She hopes things will change when 1980 comes around.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she shakes her head, “but you know I can’t be your decoy anymore, right?”

He nods, wiping his face.

“You deserve better,” he agrees, “I’m sorry I lied for so long. I wish I wasn’t this way.”

She shakes her head because he shouldn’t wish that. It’s not _him_ that’s wrong. She thinks about Church and the things they say there. She imagines him torturing himself, thinking he’ll be forgiven as long as he says ten Hail Mary’s after he kisses Renly and keeps his hand on his Bible while he does it. She thinks about him apologising to God.

Then she thinks that’s _stupid_ because he’s kind and good and shouldn’t that matter more? 

“Don’t wish that,” she says, “there’s _nothing_ wrong with who you are—and everyone deserves to be happy.”

The smile he gives her doesn’t quite reach his eyes but it’s a start.

He sits back in the booth and finally starts to relax.

They share two more milkshakes and on the walk home, Sansa realises those were Jon’s words.  
  


* * *

  
That summer, Sansa starts to drift apart from Alys and Myranda.

She’s not sure exactly when it happens. She just knows she doesn’t want to hang out at the mall all weekend anymore or talk about boys or makeup or what Lynda Carter uses to get her hair so shiny. She doesn’t want to bitch about her classmates or pretend trying hard at school makes you a loser.

She has a new perspective on things, she’s _changed,_ and they haven’t.

She would feel alone, but her other relationships have shifted and changed too.

She no longer rolls her eyes at Arya and pretends she’s too cool to hang out with her. She still tries to get through to Robb and she cares enough to scold Bran for climbing trees that are too high and she tucks Rickon in at night.

Jon still pushes her buttons but that’s not quite the same either.

She’s sitting on the workbench in the garage again one day as she watches him work on dad’s— _Robb’s_ —car. 

He’s lying on what he called a creeper board under the car so she can only see the bottom half of his body. She can hear him tinkling with something, the metal of his tools clanging, and she revels in the comfortable silence again.

After ten minutes or so, he pulls himself out.

He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and it makes his white tee ride up. The muscles of his lower stomach look taut and firm and her eyes widen slightly before she looks away. There’s a strange stirring sensation in the pit of her stomach, a warmth she’s never felt before. She looks to the garage door to check it’s open because she’s so hot, she’s practically burning up.

He must notice because when she looks at him again, he’s standing up and frowning.

“You okay?”

_No._

“Yeah,” she clears her throat, a bit shaken, and tries to change the subject, “I told Robb he couldn’t fix it.”

He chuckles, his top riding up again when he lifts his hand to run it through his curls. She wishes he wouldn’t do that. She wishes he’d do it again.

She shakes her head.

“Leave it to the professionals, huh?” he quips with an easy smile, grabbing a rag to wipe the oil off his hands.

She nods, leaning on her palms and swinging her legs slowly.

“Did you always want to be a mechanic? How comes you didn’t go to college?”

He pauses, clearly surprised by the question. She understands why. She’s never shown an interest in him before.

He gives a wry smile.

“School was never my thing.”

She thinks that’s strange because he’s clearly clever. Daddy would always say _Jon has his head screwed on straight_ , whatever that means, and he always knows what to say and the answers to quiz shows. Maybe he’s not academic, but she gets the impression it’s more likely he stayed for his mom, to help her out, than he wasn’t good enough for college.

“Maybe you can go to college when you’re older,” she tries.

 _When your mom doesn’t need your help anymore,_ she wants to say.

“Maybe,” he says politely.

He walks around the car to pop open the hood. Robb had spent two weeks trying to find out what was wrong with it, why the engine made that strange noise when he put the key in the ignition and why smoke was coming out of the bonnet, before he had to admit defeat and ask Jon to take a look.

He leans forward and Sansa notices his arms for the first time. They’re big. Strong. He looks like he could pick her up.

Her eyes widen again. She doesn’t know why she’s noticing these things, why they’re popping into her head. She’s seventeen and she’s had fantasies about boys before but _this_ is different.

It feels like she’s seeing him for the first time.

“Shouldn’t you be at the mall or something?” his voice rumbles from inside the car and has he always had a voice like that? Like honey or velvet? Has it always been that low and deep?

“The mall’s boring.”

She feels, more than hears, his chuckle.

“I never thought I’d see the day when _you_ said shopping was boring.”

He’s teasing her.

Jon Snow is _teasing_ her.

It’s weird. It’s unusual. She likes it.

“Yeah well, I’ve changed,” she says because that much is obvious.

He leans further into the car as he works and unlike the spoilt, rich boys at school, he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, his tone lined with amusement.

She swallows, a stirring in the pit of her stomach.

“Yeah,” she whispers uneasily.

She stays quiet until he’s finished—and then Robb’s car roars to life.   
  


* * *

  
It’s gone 1am one night when Sansa catches Margaery Tyrell sneaking out of Robb’s room. 

She pauses from where she’s got her head in the fridge, looking for a midnight snack. She peeks around the corner guiltily and raises a brow at the brunette trying to tiptoe silently to the front door.

Margaery pauses at the doorway, knowing she’s caught.

It would be awkward, but Sansa gets the feeling she doesn’t know the word.

Margaery's just one of those girls who wakes up in the morning smelling good and looking perfect. She always has a flawless, big smile on her face and her legs are probably always hairless and smooth and she’s popular but still kind to everyone. She’s the sort of girl who has perfect curls that would take Sansa countless hours and heated rollers to perfect and she’s jealous of her like Rizzo is of Sandy.

“Hey,” she even sounds bright and friendly when she’s whispering, “Sansa, right?”

Sansa grabs a bottle of water and closes the fridge door, pretending that’s what she came for.

“Right,” she nods, her eyes sweeping over her. She tries to put on her best disapproving face. “Mama doesn’t like Robb having girls over.”

She says—because she likes to pretend her mom would still be mad if she caught her.

In the half light of the kitchen, Sansa can see her lips are a little red and swollen, like she's been kissing, and her clothes are rumpled.

Her nose scrunches up in disgust.

“Sorry,” Margaery says but her voice is still breezy, “I’ll go. It was nice to meet you… kind of.”

She laughs and gives a little wave before turning around.

“Robb said you broke up,” it’s out of Sansa's mouth before she can stop it.

Margaery turns around and quirks a brow.

“We did, but…” it looks like she’s trying to find the words, something akin to pain flickering over her perfect face, before she sighs, “it’s… complicated. I really care about your brother. I think that’s probably all he’d want me to say on the subject.”

Sansa appreciates the fact that she didn’t patronise her, didn’t say _you’ll understand when you’re older_ or _when you grow up._ Margaery’s only a year older than her, after-all.

“That’s good,” Sansa nods, a little awkward, “I’m glad.”

Margaery nods too.

She opens her mouth and closes it again, like she wants to say something but she’s not sure she should.

“What?” Sansa asks.

“He loves you very much,” she says then, “I hope you know that.”

She gives her a little smile before she finally leaves.

Sansa stays in the kitchen, rooted to the spot. 

She used to know, but now she’s not so sure.   
  


* * *

  
By the time August comes around, Joffrey Baratheon finally talks her into a date.

He’s been asking her since last summer and she finally caves. She’s indifferent and bored and, if she’s honest, a little lonely. She starts seeking things out that make her feel again, that remind her of what she loved about life before her dad was lowered into the ground.

She asks to ride on the back of Jon’s motorbike pretty much weekly, rolling her eyes at his insistence that Robb would kill him and her Dad would turn in his grave. He’s as stubborn as she is but she thinks one of these days, she’ll make him crack.

Her Mom hasn’t made any improvement and she stops trying to emulate her, stops wanting to be just like her. In-fact, she dyes her hair blonde so people stop pinching her cheek and comparing them and she thinks it looks pretty good until Jon comes around.

He looks surprised when he sees her and his smile is a little tight and she _knows_ he doesn’t like it—but he’s far too polite to say.

He takes a strand, casually twirling it around his finger. He gives it a gentle tug and she searches his stoic face for a reaction.

“It’s nice,” he says, a little unconvincingly, “I liked it before too.”

Her chest feels too warm.

“Yeah, Robb said you like redheads.”

She said it because Ygritte’s a redhead. The old her rears its ugly head for a moment when she smugly thinks her natural tone is much nicer. Ygritte’s is sort of orange-y and brassy and frizzy and it looks like it came from a box and—

Her trail of thought dies when Jon drops her hair and steps back like she’s burned him.

His fingers sort of flex at his sides, his jaw tight, and she realises what she said.

It’s nothing explicit, just the flickering embers of something new, a rumbling under the surface.

She lets the blonde grow out.  
  


* * *

  
She sees Joffrey again.

It’s not so much that she likes him or thinks they’ll be together forever or anything like that. It’s more that it gives her something to do; it makes her move. She’s made a commitment to something and she needs to see it through.

She’s just applying the finishing touches to her makeup when Arya barges in without knocking.

“You look like a clown,” she says bluntly.

Sansa rolls her eyes, sniffing slightly as she puts her lipstick down.

“I _look_ like a girl who’s about to go out with a boy,” she corrects, swivelling in the chair so she can look at her sister. She crosses her arms over her chest, her eyes flickering from Arya’s moon boots to her faded Beatles t-shirt. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

She feels smug because she knows how pissed off she gets when someone says that to her. Judging by the pinch to Arya’s mouth, it pisses her off too. But it’s true. Arya’s fourteen and all she cares about is hockey, conspiracy theories about JFK and her stupid pet rock.

She stands and adjusts her short black dress, making sure to push her boobs up and out. She fluffs her hair and tries not to stumble in her too-high heels.

There’s not much to do in this town and she’s only going to the same diner Loras took her to when he told her he was gay but _still_.

It’s nice to make an effort.

Once she’s carefully made her way downstairs, she sees Robb and Jon watching TV in the living room.

Jon notices her first and he gives a low whistle, his eyes dragging from her curled hair to her toes.

“Pulling out all the stops tonight, huh?”

She feels her cheeks burn, a knot in the pit of her belly as she pretends his friendliness is something else.

His voice makes Robb look up and his eyes widen almost comically.

“You can’t go out in that,” he practically stutters, “put a jacket on or something, Jesus Christ.”

Sansa rolls her eyes.

“I _told_ her she was wearing too much makeup,” Arya’s smug voice pipes up from behind her.

“Shut _up,_ Arya,” she sniffs and holds her head up high as Joffrey toots his horn from outside.

She notices Robb and Jon scowl, probably thinking it rude that he doesn’t come to the door, but she ignores it.

She can feel Jon’s eyes on her, dark and steel grey, and she could _swear_ there’s something different in them. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t look like a little girl anymore. When she gets home that night, wrapped up in her cool sheets, she’ll pretend he was consumed with jealousy. It’s a nice fantasy.

When she opens the door, the chill hits her like a whip. It’s ridiculously cold for an August evening and she doesn’t want to admit defeat but she also doesn’t want to freeze. Jon takes pity on her because he’s soon sighing and passing her his leather jacket. It’s draped over the arm of the sofa he’s sitting on and it’s the one he _always_ wears and she knows it’ll carry his scent, all heady and masculine.

She probably shouldn’t wear another boy’s clothes when she’s going on a date. She does anyway. She drapes it over her shoulders and pulls it around her, practically drowning in it.

It smells like aftershave and smoke and pine and something else that’s uniquely _him_.

He never asks her to give it back so she just… doesn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

Somewhere along the way, Jon’s opinion starts to matter to her.

It’s around the same time Joffrey starts hinting about sex. Myranda’s always busy and Alys is on vacation and she certainly isn’t going to ask _Robb_ for advice.

So she ends up asking Jon.

“How do you know when you’re ready?” she just says it one day while they’re in the garage again.

This time, he’s working on his bike because there’s more room here and Ned had good tools and Jon’s apartment doesn’t even have a bathtub let alone a garage.

“Ready for what?”

Clearly he’s fixed whatever was wrong with it because when he turns the key, the bike’s engine rumbles to life again.

“Sex.”

Jon stiffens, his hand pausing on one of the handlebars.

She counts a full thirty seconds before she checks he’s still alive.

“Jon?”

He clears his throat, a husky rumbling sound, before he turns to face her. His expression is guarded, the same as always, and he leans against the bike, folding his arms over his chest.

“Shouldn’t you be asking one of your friends?” he raises a brow and she realises he says _friends_ because he doesn’t know their names. They’re not in each other’s circles, in each other’s orbits. Sometimes it feels like they’re from different worlds, “or your mom or… I don’t know, _anyone_ else?”

She shrugs.

“I don’t want to ask anyone else.”

He blinks at her before he sighs and runs a hand over his face.

“Sansa, this is inappropriate.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes.

He drinks and smokes and rides a motorbike and he’s definitely been having sex for years now—so she doesn’t think he can play the angelic, good boy card.

“Nothing about you is appropriate.”

The corner of his mouth quirks and he tries to retain his smile.

“It’s late. You should go inside.”

She shakes her head.

“You want me to be safe, don’t you?”

He narrows his eyes but there’s a curve to his mouth.

“Not fair.”

She shrugs because she never said she’d play fair.

He runs a hand over his face again and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“I’m no poet,” he warns.

“I’m not asking you to be.”

He seems to think for a moment.

“You’ll just know,” he shrugs.

Sansa stares at him before a laugh bubbles from her lips.

“Gee, thanks.”

He sighs again and pushes off the bike, taking a step towards her.

He shrugs and it brings attention to his shoulders, well-muscled and strong under his white tee. He steps a little closer and she can see specks of violet in his eyes that she’s never seen before. He’s wearing blue jeans that cling to his thighs and stupidly nice ass and she can’t stop looking at him.

_Why can’t she stop looking at him?_

Her cheeks feel too warm, her chest too tight, and she waits for him with bated breath.

“You’ll know when you feel safe,” he murmurs eventually, “your first time should be with someone you care about, Sansa. Someone you trust completely. You’ll know when you can’t imagine yourself with anyone else.”

She swallows, suddenly aware of his close proximity. He smells like woodsy aftershave and the cigarettes he smokes. He smells like his leather jacket, the one that’s still wrapped around her. She’s embarrassed to admit she rarely takes it off. 

He notices, his dark eyes flitting over her, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ask for it back. She hopes he thinks it looks better on her.

He’d never say that though because that would be flirty and dangerous and so _not_ Jon.

“Was your first time with someone you cared about?”

His mouth twitches under his beard. She likes his beard and his full lips. She wonders if it would tickle when he kissed her, if it would leave a burn on the insides of her thighs. That thought makes her blush again.

“Yeah,” he says with another little shrug, "it was... nice."

She wants to know more. She wants to know everything, he’s still such a mystery to her.

She wants to know if it was Ygritte and how old he was and where it happened and if it’s really okay to do it before marriage, because she thinks it is but no-one’s told her that yet.

Mostly, she wants him to notice her—because she notices him.  
  


* * *

  
Sansa stares at the yellow post it note on the fridge, trying to make sense of it.

 _Gone to Aunt Lysa’s,_ it says.

It’s her Mama’s handwriting but she can’t have written it. She wouldn’t just _leave_ without telling them and she hasn’t said why or when she’ll be back. 

Arya’s only fourteen and Bran’s just turned twelve and Rickon’s just a baby at eight. Robb’s all over the place, he’s even passed out in the living room right now, and she can’t do this alone.

She has no idea what she’s doing.

She lifts her chin, sniffs and clenches her teeth so tight, her jaw aches.

She walks numbly into the living room and kicks Robb’s foot.

“Get up,” she says, “Mama’s gone.”

He groggily opens his eyes and they’re watery and bloodshot. She leans forward and breathes in a sweet, musky smell.

“Are you _high_?” she asked, disgusted.

He wipes at his eyes and doesn’t answer the question.

“Mom’s gone?” he asks instead.

“She left a note. She’s gone to Lysa’s.”

He blinks, his mind clearly working at half-speed.

 _“Fuck,”_ he curses under his breath.

When he stands, he stumbles a little, and he doesn’t look like her brother anymore.

Robb was always so handsome, the most popular boy in school. It was clichéd, but all the girls wanted him and all the boys wanted to _be_ him.

Now, his curls are unruly and there are dark, purple bags under his eyes. He looks angry all the time. She hasn’t seen Margaery sneaking out of his room lately and she wonders if he’s like this with her too.

If he treats her this way, Sansa’s not surprised she left.

She says as much and it makes him explode.

“Don’t talk about Margaery,” he practically growls, “you don’t know shit about her.”

Her anger flares to match him, intense and red hot.

“No I don’t, because you don’t tell me anything.”

He runs a hand through his hair. His fingers are trembling. He must see the furious glint in her eye because he flinches and rubs the back of his neck.

“It’s just—it’s all fucked, Sansa,” he sighs and he never used to swear so much. “I didn’t mean for it to get so fucked up.”

She frowns, feeling confused.

“What do you mean? What did you do?”

He flinches again and shakes his head.

“I’m trying, Sans,” he says instead and his fingers start to tap against each other, each digit dancing erratically against his thumb, “I’m trying to look after you and be here for you—and Bran and Arya and Rickon—but I just—I have so much _shit_ going on, you don’t even know.”

“ _Tell me_ then,” she whispers, reaching for him. It kills her when he pulls back. “we used to tell each other everything.”

He shakes his head, looking dazed and upset.

“I need to find Mom. Just—” he runs both hands over his face, “—be a good girl, Sansa.”

It makes her even angrier because she’s _always_ a good girl.

She always gives her homework in on time and she’s never missed a curfew and she always plays with Rickon, even when she’s exhausted and she doesn’t want to.

All this talk of how good she is—where has it gotten her?

She’s so angry she can barely see straight, and she takes it out on Jon.  
  


* * *

  
“You don’t know _anything_ ,” she seethes as Joffrey impatiently toots his horn again.

Jon sighs, his brow furrowed, and her angry fingers fumble as she tries to close her purse. She grabs her jacket— _his jacket_ —and fumbles trying to put that on too. When it’s on, it feels like a blanket, something safe and warm, and she shrugs out of it again when she remembers it’s his.

She won’t wear it when she’s so angry with him.

She basically shoves it into his chest.

It annoys her when he barely moves, his body strong and solid. She thinks he probably works out all the time, the vain asshole.

The leather slips uncaringly through his fingers as he grips it loosely, his arm returning to his side.

“Come on, don’t be like that—”

“Good _bye,_ Jon,” she huffs, finished with this conversation.

She scowls when she opens the front door and his hand pushes down onto the wood, slamming it shut again.

They stay like that for a moment. She can see his hand out of the corner of her eye and feel the heat of him behind her, all whiskey and smoke. It’s silent and the air feels too thin, burning white hot between them.

Her throat is suddenly very dry as she slowly turns around.

His hand stays on the door, caging her in, and he leans back to give her some space but he’s still _there—_ surrounding her.

“I’m just trying to look out for you, kid.”

She narrows her eyes and when she speaks, her voice sounds husky and low. Not like a kid at all.

“Don’t call me that.”

His mouth twitches but it’s a sad, sullen smile.

“Look, I know this town,” he starts quietly, “and what I’ve heard about this Baratheon kid… it’s not good. I’m sure he says real pretty things and he’ll probably be a lawyer one day and your Mama would love him but he’s bad news. Not for you.”

She blinks up at him, her throat still burning. Outside, Joffrey toots the horn again and she knows when she finally gets out there, he’ll be angry. Sometimes he gets really angry and his face goes all purple and her blood turns cold.

She would rather die than admit that to Jon. 

“Oh really?” she says instead, her tone dry, “and just where do you get off deciding this?”

He clenches his jaw, his fingers flexing against the door.

“I’m not _deciding_ anything,” he insists, “I’m just asking you to be careful—because I’ll always look out for you. I’m not going to only give you my opinion when it suits you.”

She averts her eyes, a tightness in her chest, because she _always_ wants his opinion and she _always_ wants him around—and that doesn’t suit her at all.

“It’s not your _job_ to look out for me,” she mutters.

“Isn’t it?”

Her eyes fly to his and his gaze is a little darker, intense and stormy.

“I’m not a kid,” she says again, matching his fire.

He stills for a beat, his throat moving as his gaze flickers from her eyes to her mouth and back again. She swears he leans in a little and her heart stops.

 _He’s going to kiss her,_ she thinks.

His mouth is so close and so pretty and she doesn’t think she’s ever wanted anything as much as she wants him right now. She wants him to kiss her. She wants him to both never tell her what to do and forbid her from seeing Joffrey again. She wants him to go away and stay forever. She wants him to wrap his strong arms around her and take her against the door, right here, right now, because he said _your first time should be with someone you care about,_ and she cares about him. So much.

As fast as it happened, he leans back and the moment’s gone.

“No,” he murmurs quietly and his eyes are fixed on her lips again, “you’re not.”

Inexplicably, she wants to cry.

She wants to hurt him.

She wants to break him like he’s breaking her.

“You’re not my brother,” she fires at him, “and you’re certainly not my father.”

“No, but we both know Robb’s not himself,” he wraps it up in euphemism but it looks like the words hurt to say, “and trust me, I know it’s hard without a Dad—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she interrupts him, her tone fierce and her blood turning cold, “my Daddy died. Yours left because he didn’t care about you.”

He doesn’t react at first.

He just stands there and lets what she said hang in the air, in the widening gap between them.

She regrets it pretty much from the moment it leaves her lips.

But it’s too late.

She can see him retreating into his own head and then he's pulling back from her too. He slowly pushes off the door and takes a step back. Her body leans forward, pulled like the shift of the tide, an ebb and flow. She kind of reaches for him before she pulls back.

“Have a good evening, Sansa.”

His tone is blank, clinical, and then he leaves.

She wants to call after him. She wants to tell him she’s sorry, that she didn’t mean that at all and he’s so good and so strong and Rhaegar’s an idiot. She wants to tell him he’s worthy and loved and _enough—_ because he is. He always has been.

The words lodge in her throat, make it hard to breathe, and Joffrey’s banging on the door this time.  
  


* * *

  
The date doesn’t go well.

Joffrey takes her to the pictures to see _Jaws 2_. She hasn’t seen the first one but Robb has and she remembers last time they went to the beach, Margaery was too scared to go in the water. She remembers the way he’d laughed at her, carefree and happy.

She missed seeing him like that.

She hasn’t seen Margaery in ages, not even around town, and Robb looks even worse these days. Something is definitely going on between them and she makes a mental note to finally find out, once and for all.

After this stupid movie with too much gore and too much screaming.

Joffrey looks as delighted by the movie as Loras was by _Grease_ —but Loras loved the singing and dancing, just like she did, whereas Joffrey seems to love all the killing.

As she watches his expression twist sinisterly, she realises she doesn’t want to do this anymore.

She’s sick of pretending, of waiting around for a spark to ignite.

It seems Joffrey’s tired of waiting too because when he gets her in his car, he doesn’t head in the direction of home. Instead, he pulls up in a quiet parking lot and stops the car.

Before she can question him, he unbuckles his seatbelt, leans over the central console, and grabs her face.

She lurches back with a little noise of surprise.

“What are you _doing_?” she asks, horrified.

He stares at her for a beat before he scoffs.

“It’s, like, our _fifth_ date,” he says, all deadpan like that’s supposed to mean something.

“So?”

“So…” his expression twists into an ugly sneer, “it’s time to move to the next step, don’t you think?”

Her blood turns to ice, dread and regret fighting for precedence in the pit of her stomach.

Jon’s voice echoes along with the pulse pounding in her ears.

 _You’ll know when you feel safe—_ she’s not sure she’s ever felt _less_ safe.

_Your first time should be with someone you care about, Sansa. Someone you trust completely. You’ll know when you can’t imagine yourself with anyone else._

She doesn’t care about Joffrey. She certainly doesn’t trust him and in this moment, right now, she can pretty much imagine herself with _anyone_ else.

“Uh no, I do _not_ think,” she says, her hand reaching for the door handle, “look Joffrey, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression—”

He scoffs bitterly, sitting back in his seat.

“I should’ve known. Everyone said you were a frigid bitch.”

The words hurt more than they should and she folds her arms around herself. She suddenly wishes she was wearing Jon’s jacket.

“What?”

“Well, Loras never got anywhere with you either. You’re obviously just a tease.”

“I’m not—” she shakes her head, her eyes falling shut. The thoughts she’s been having lately about a _certain someone_ are certainly not PG and she’d do all those things and more—but not with Joffrey.

She could defend herself. She could say she _wanted_ to get somewhere with Loras but she couldn’t because he’s gay and that’s not her fault.

But she would never say that.

“I think we should break up,” she says dully, like it wasn’t obvious.

“Yeah, no shit,” he spits, his tone venomous, and then he adds, “get out.”

She stills.

“What?”

“You heard me. Scram,” his voice is bored now as he strums his fingers on the steering wheel, “if you’re not going to put out, get out.”

White hot panic bubbles inside her.

“It’s ten o’clock and we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

There isn’t a bus stop for miles.

He just shrugs, uncaring, and raises an expectant brow.

She stares at him for a moment before the resignation sets in.

She opens the door and steps onto the ground, slamming it shut behind her. She’s barely put a foot down before the car roars to life again.

She winces as he peels out of the parking lot, the squeal of tires on tarmac piercing the warm night air.  
  


* * *

  
Sansa grips then 10 cent piece in her hand, her thumb running along the cold, curved edge.

It’s the only one she has, just some notes in her purse otherwise, and she knows she has to make the call count.

She hasn’t spoken to Alys or Myranda in weeks and it’s past their curfew anyway. She could try Robb but he’s already so angry and so worried all the time, she doesn’t want to make it worse, and she doesn’t know Aunt Lysa’s number off my heart.

There’s only one other number she has memorised and she punches it in the keypad before she can talk herself out of it.

The payphone rings shrilly, cold and clinical, and she counts the seconds.

Her heart leaps to her throat when she hears Jon’s voice.

“Yeah?”

“Jon,” she breathes in relief, “it’s me, Sansa.”

It’s silent for a moment.

“Sansa?” he repeats and she closes her eyes; no-one says her name like he does, “are you okay?”

She purses her lips to keep from crying and shakes her head before she realises he can’t see her.

“Not really,” she admits quietly, “can you come pick me up?”

“Where are you?”

It kills her, how he doesn’t even hesitate.

“The Wawa on the corner of West and Main,” she says, her fingers tightening around the phone.

She hears some shuffling on the end of the line. She envisages him putting that leather jacket on and just like that, she starts to cry.

“Jon, I’m sorry about what I said,” she sobs, “I didn’t mean it.”

It’s like the floodgates have been opened and she can’t stop. She can’t think, can’t move. She can’t _breathe._ She wants to be brave. For Bran and Rickon, who still don’t understand and still wait for Dad to come home. For Arya, who’s barely fourteen and just trying to find her way in the world. For Robb, who’s so broken, she’s not sure if there’s anything left to fix. For her mother, who she loves but also hates a little.

She spills everything into that payphone, all the worry and fear and pain of missing her Dad. All the emotions she’s kept tightly bottled up inside her; they all come rushing back.

“It’s fine,” he insists. His voice is so gentle and kind, it just makes her cry more, and then he’s saying, “stay there, okay? Just—don’t move.”

She knows they don’t have time for this but nothing has ever been more important and she bites out—

“Please forgive me.”

She hears his sigh, heavy and resigned through the receiver.

“I forgave you the minute you said it.”

He says—and then she hears the dull ring of the dial tone.


	4. Chapter 4

Jon arrives on his motorbike.

Sansa blinks against the Wawa’s red fluorescent lights, squinting as the bike comes into focus. It rumbles to a stop just in-front of her and he kicks the brake on with his foot.

She bites her bottom lip to stop it from trembling, folding her arms around herself. It’s turned cold now and she can feel wetness on her cheeks, the wind whistling through her bones.

Her eyes flit over the bike, her hand reaching out to touch the cool steel of the handlebars. She can feel the burn of his eyes on her all the while, curious and gentle.

She’s been begging for a ride for weeks now, throwing him a frown and a pout every time he denies her. He’d always shake his head with a little smirk and she’s surprised he seems to have changed his mind.

“Thought you might need cheering up,” he shrugs eventually, reading her mind.

She bites into her bottom lip again, the words causing an ache in her chest. It’s a small gesture that means a lot and she feels like crying all over again.

“Come on, kid,” he tips his chin, “I’ll take you home.”

 _Home,_ the word trembles through her.

Home, where her younger siblings depend on her and daddy’s gone and mama’s gone now too. Robb said she wouldn’t listen when he asked her to leave Lysa’s, that she said she needs _time._ But they all need time and Sansa thinks she shouldn’t be so selfish. So Robb’s at home with Bran, Rickon and Arya, and she just doesn’t want to face any questions and _she_ needs time so maybe she’s selfish too.

“No,” she shakes her head, “I can’t—I just need a minute. I need some space. Can you take me to yours?”

His brows furrow and she knows what he’s going to say before he says it so she begs—

“ _Please_.”

“Alright,” he gives a sigh of defeat and she wonders when she started having power over him, “just for a little while.”

She takes the helmet he holds out to her. He’s not wearing one himself and she wants to chastise him but she doesn’t have the energy. She slips it on and climbs on the back of the bike.

She pauses for a moment, unsure what to do with her hands. She toys with the idea of holding onto his shoulders before she resigns herself to what she really wants to do. She hooks her arms under his and presses the side of her face against his jacket. She feels him tense, his abs flexing under her curious fingers, before he relaxes and the bike rumbles to life underneath her.

As he peels out of the Wawa and down the highway, her arms tighten around his waist.

The wind shrieks and wails through her ears, the bike’s engine vibrating underneath her. She doesn’t know anything about riding motorcycles but he seems at ease, effortlessly gliding between cars and turning corners.

She’s never been so close to him before and she breathes him in, all warmth and whiskey and smoke and _Jon._ When he hits a bump, he must feel her tense because one hand leaves the bike. His palm brushes over the back of her hand, his fingers gently grasping her wrist. His hands are cold but his touch still burns.

It’s nothing really, yet still the most intimate way she’s ever been touched.  
  


* * *

  
“Yeah,” she can hear Jon’s voice in the other room, a deep and low rumble, “she’s here. She’s safe.”

She swipes her thumb under her eyes, brushing away the flakes of mascara that her tears have smudged there. She gives herself another once over in the bathroom mirror before she decides her appearance will have to do.

 _It’s not like Jon cares what you look like_ , she derides herself. _You’re Robb’s little sister._

But sometimes, only sometimes, he looks at her like she’s more than that.

She shakes her head and tells herself to get a grip, walking outside to see him pacing as far as the telephone cord will allow. He’s twirling it around his index finger as he speaks.

“Yeah,” he’s nodding to the person on the other side, “dude, stop worrying. I told you, she’s fine. I’ll bring her back now.”

He mumbles a goodbye and puts the phone down. He doesn’t look surprised to see her standing there.

He crosses his arms, his eyes flitting over her.

She wonders what he sees.

“Robb,” he clarifies, “he’s real worried about you.”

She fights the urge to childishly roll her eyes because Robb doesn’t seem worried about anyone these days. Then she thinks maybe that’s not fair and she feels guilty again. She’s sick of feeling guilty.

“He didn’t even know I was dating Loras, let alone Joffrey.”

“Was?” Jon asks, his tone cautious.

She shrugs, folding her own arms over her chest.

“You were right about him too,” she says sullenly, “you can start gloating now.”

His mouth twitches but it’s not quite a smile.

“Not my style,” he says and when he walks into the kitchen, she follows him.

She watches quietly as he opens the fridge and starts rummaging inside. She’s never been in his apartment before and it’s… pretty much how she imagined it. Bare, masculine and a little detached. The furniture is sparse, the colours limited to black, white and grey, and there are no photographs anywhere. It barely looks lived in and she feels a little sad for him. The Stark house was always warm. No matter what happened, Sansa grew up knowing she was loved—unconditionally.

“I’m guessing it’s not your style to pry either,” she says dryly, talking to his back.

She watches his shoulders lift and fall slightly before he turns around, the open fridge bathing him in a harsh, clinical light.

“You know me,” he says casually—but she doesn’t really.

She doesn’t know his favourite band or if he had any pets growing up or if he’s seen _Grease._ She doesn’t know how many girlfriends he’s had or his best subject at school or if he wants kids one day.

But she _does_ know how he makes her feel—a warm, heady feeling that seems to spread throughout her whole body. She knows he cares about her opinion and he worries about her and he’s always, _always_ around for her—even when it looks like it pains him to be so.

“You want something to eat?” he asks, which explains his venture to the fridge, “I’m not much of a cook but I can rustle up a sandwich or something.”

She’s had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach since Joffrey touched her. Now it feels bottomless for a different reason, and she shakes her head.

“I’m fine,” she murmurs, “thank you.”

He nods and closes the fridge.

Now the only light is coming from the window, soft moonlight that streams into the kitchen like a spotlight. She hops up onto the counter, her hands gripping the marbled edge.

“I should get you home then,” he says. Her insides scream and shout at the wrongness of the idea. “Robb’s waiting and I told him, so—”

“—Joffrey wanted to have sex.”

He stiffens at her sudden word vomit.

“What?”

She shrugs, her cheeks heating up a little. She’s not sure why she said that, she just wanted him to know. She’s come to need his advice, his help. He always knows what to say.

“He kicked me out of the car because I said no.”

In the half moonlight, she sees Jon’s jaw clench. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

He doesn’t say he was right or threaten Joffrey or call him names.

He takes a step towards her and all he seems to care about is—

“Are you okay?”

—and just like that, she’s tearing up again, because she can’t remember the last time anyone other than him asked her that.

She tries to wipe the tears away before he sees them but she doesn’t manage it.

“Shit Sansa, don't cry.”

He wraps an arm around her and pulls her into a hug. Her hands come to rest on his waist as she presses her flushed cheek to his chest. She grips the material of his shirt in tight fists and his fingers are in her hair and she can’t breathe.

“I didn’t want him,” she mumbles into his chest.

She feels him nod, his fingers tightening around loose strands of red.

She pulls back to look at him.

He’s so close and so warm and so handsome, bathed in soft moonlight from the window.

She suddenly realises how close they are. He’s bracketed between her legs, standing between her spread thighs and if she were to just close them a bit, she’d be touching him, squeezing his sides so he can’t run away. Her hands drift from his waist to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. It feels much calmer than her own, which is fluttering wildly against her ribcage.

He must realise it too because something dark and shuttered sweeps over his expression and his hands return to his sides. His jaw locks and she registers the movement of his throat as he swallows.

It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room, silence thrumming like a living thing. 

The atmosphere burns white hot and thin between them, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. 

His dark eyes sweep over her face and her chest tightens, something bold sparking through her.

Maybe if they hadn’t settled for a beat too long on her mouth, she wouldn’t have the confidence. Maybe if his pupils hadn’t dilated, blown almost to black, she would blush and move away.

But they _had_ and they _did_ —so she leans in instead. 

He lets out a little tortured sound, halfway between a sigh and a groan, and tilts his chin away.

“Sansa, don’t.”

Maybe she should feel embarrassed but she _knows_ she’s not imagining it, this heat between them.

“Don’t what?” she pushes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says roughly.

She smiles, her eyes focused on his pretty mouth.

“I think you like the way I look at you,” she whispers.

He screws his eyes shut before he drags his gaze away. He turns his face and she gets a better view of his strong jawline, clenched tight.

She waits for him to surrender to it because she has.

“Jon,” she whispers eventually and it’s like something snaps.

He gives a little growl, his top lip curling, and then his face is turning and he’s kissing her.

He swallows her gasp of surprise as she arches into him, looping her arms around his neck. He tastes like mint and smoke and something sweeter and she pulls him closer still. She matches his intensity, pouring every emotion she’s felt over the past year into the kiss.

It feels like the culmination of something, like everything’s been building up to this. She tries to keep up, to follow his lead, so when she feels his tongue run over her bottom lip, she opens her mouth and lets it sweep inside. It slides against hers, rough and hot silk, and when it retreats, she moans and seeks it out again.

She blossoms under him, her blood fire, his touch a spark. The careful control he keeps on himself seems to disintegrate as he changes the angle of the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers. She feels the sharp scrape of his teeth on her lips as he gives the bottom one a little tug.

His mouth is as soft as she imagined, warm and wet and kissing her with just the right amount of pressure. He’s more experienced than she is and he clearly knows what he’s doing, but she doesn’t feel out of her depth. She feels comfortable, in control, and her hands fly to his hair, tangling in the black curls. When she grips and pulls, he releases a heavy groan into her mouth.

He breaks away and she wants to protest, but then he’s dragging his mouth to her cheek and then down her neck. She tips her head back, her breath caught in her throat, as he plants hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her flushed skin.

She spreads her thighs wider, allowing him to step between them. His hands are as insistent as hers as he tugs and pulls her closer until her ass is half off the counter and she’s flush against him. She can feel him, _all of him_ , solid muscles against soft curves.

She feels like she’s burning from the inside out, like everything is moving too fast for her to process, and there’s no darkness or confusion or death; there’s only him.

 _Just_ him.

Just Jon.

She whispers it, a breathy and unfamiliar little sound.

 _“Jon_. _”_

It has the same effect as a bucket of ice water poured over his head.

He breaks away, his forehead resting against hers.

“Shit,” he mutters against her mouth, his eyes still closed.

His hands have slid to her thighs and she can feel his fingers flexing. She wonders if it’s a habit he has, if he’s stressed. He’s so unreachable to her, it’s hard to tell. She just knows she doesn’t want him to retreat. She doesn’t want things to go back to how they were before.

She doesn’t think it’s possible. Not now she knows what he feels like, what his mouth tastes like. The very touch of him.

“Jon—”

“We need to get you home,” he repeats. Her hands ache from the loss when he steps back and runs a hand through his hair.

He looks shaken and pained and a little upset, so she relents. For now.

The shrill ring of the telephone pierces the silence.

She jumps off the counter just as Jon promises Robb he’s bringing her home again.  
  


* * *

  
He takes her home in the car.

He smokes on the way, holding his cigarette out of the window. She stares at the wing mirror and watches flickers of ash dance behind them in the wind.

He holds it between his teeth when he reverses into the driveway, one arm slung over her seat as he turns to look out the back mirror. She thinks he looks like a dark sort of James Dean, effortlessly cool and collected.

She feels torn and confused. She wants to ask him when _he_ thinks things changed between them because she can’t pinpoint exactly when or why. She wants to ask why he kissed her and why he stopped and if they can do it again.

The silence that falls over them when he stops the engine is tense and awkward.

The fingers of his right hand strum against the steering wheel, the cigarette caught between two on his left. He’s wearing a ring and the porchlight makes the steel glimmer.

“Sansa,” he doesn’t say her name much but when he does, his tongue wraps around it sinfully. It makes her shudder. “You should know that none of what happened tonight is your fault.”

She blinks, slowly turning to look at him.

“What happened with Joffrey or what happened in the kitchen?” she asks bluntly.

He stares at her for a beat. Maybe he didn’t expect her to be so candid but she’s tired and stressed and that kiss was the only good thing she’s experienced since her daddy died.

She’s not letting him take it away from her.

He sighs and drags his gaze away. He looks straight ahead, as though all the answers he needs are engraved in the Stark family’s front door.

“All of it,” he says quietly.

She recognises what he’s trying to do. She was upset and he thinks he’s taken advantage of her. He thinks she’s a kid who doesn’t know what she wants. He’s wrong. She’s not a kid and he didn’t take advantage of her at all; he made her feel wanted and warm and _safe._

She drags her eyes away from him too.

She opens the car door just as he’s putting the cigarette out.

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke,” she says then, pausing with her fingers wrapped tightly around the door handle before she quietly adds, “Daddy smoked.”

She doesn’t wait for his reply or even look at him to check he heard.

She just steps out of the car and closes the door, leaving all thoughts of _lung cancer_ and terrible boyfriends and the taste of Jon’s mouth to be carried away by the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to take away how many chapters this is gonna be because classic me, I now have no idea🙃 just going to go where the wind takes me... shorter chapter but quite a lot of angst/progression so hope you enjoyed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mentions of teen pregnancy/abortion. Read safe lovelies.

A week passes by and they don’t talk about it.

It’s like Jon makes a concerted effort not to be in the same room as her. His expression is always sullen and his eyes are dark and he doesn’t seem to like it when she’s near him. She tries not to let it upset her because he’s so predictable, it makes her eyes roll.

She’s a Stark and she’s just lost her Dad and he probably thinks she’s confused and vulnerable. Jon’s smart and good, but he’s also honourable to a fault. He’s not the sort of boy to mess around, especially not with his best friend’s little sister.

But she’s not a kid. She’s seventeen and she feels older still, the weight of the world on her shoulders. 

She’s helping Rickon with his homework when she hears Robb, Jon and Theon talking in the next room.

“This is too difficult,” he’s complaining, rubbing his temples dramatically.

She sighs and picks up the pencil when he throws it, petulantly crossing his arms over his chest.

“Come on, Rickon,” she chastises, using the pencil to point at an equation on the page, “math isn’t my favourite either but it’s important.”

“No, it’s not,” he whines, “when will I ever need this?”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, unable to give him an answer because she’s never used algebra either. She’s about to make something up when she hears some of the boys’ conversation.

 _“Have you talked to her?”_ she thinks she hears Theon say. His voice sounds uncharacteristically worried, lined with concern, and it makes Sansa pause.

She doesn’t catch whether it’s Jon or Robb who replies because Rickon gives another exaggerated moan.

“Don’t be a baby,” she rolls her eyes, annoyed at him for interrupting her eavesdropping.

“You’re a baby,” he mutters lamely under his breath.

She ignores him, angling her face towards the door so she can hear.

The boys sound similar. They’re the same age and their voices all dropped at the same time, so it’s hard to tell them apart. She thinks she hears Theon ask the same question again and Robb sigh and Jon curse, but she can’t be sure.

What she _is_ sure of, however, is that one of them says the word _pregnant._

Her stomach rolls, an unsettling feeling in her gut, and when Rickon starts moaning again, she snaps at him.

“Shut _up,_ Rickon,” she hisses, ignoring him when he gives a dramatic, outraged gasp.

She scoots over to the wall, practically shoving her ear against it.

Rickon’s laughing at her and asking what the _hell_ she’s doing and she’s too preoccupied to reprimand him for cursing. All she can think about is deciphering what the boys are talking about, and then Robb says _Ygritte_ and someone else says _pregnant_ again—and Sansa can’t think at all.

She sits back on her haunches, her skin prickling. Something ugly twists in the pit of her stomach and it must show on her face because Rickon’s crawling towards her.

“Are you okay?” he asks in a small voice, heartbreakingly concerned.

Guilt mixes with the sickness and she ruffles his hair.

“I’m sorry for snapping, Rickon,” she says gently, “really, I’m fine.”

Really, she’s not.  
  


* * *

  
Sansa corners Jon in the kitchen one day.

“You can’t avoid me forever,” she says, watching the way his back stiffens.

His eyes are focused on the back door, but she won’t let him escape.

He slowly turns, leaning against the counter.

He’s wearing black jeans and a white tee and his hair is half tied back in a bun. He looks handsome and she hates him for it, hates her body’s confusing reaction to him. She wants to hate _him_. She doesn’t.

“I’m not avoiding you,” he insists, even as he can’t meet her eyes.

She tells him as much.

“You can’t even look at me.”

He sighs, running a hand over his face.

She doesn’t want to upset him, but she’s upset too, and there’s so much she wants to ask. There’s so much she doesn’t understand. She wants to know why he kissed her and why he stopped. She wants to know when he stopped seeing her as a kid and if he still calls her one to try and put distance between them. She wants to know if he makes a habit of kissing girls when he’s already got another one pregnant because she never, _ever_ thought he was that sort of boy.

She thought he was different and he said he’d look out for her, _always,_ so why was he hurting her now?

She doesn’t ask any of these things.

Instead, she just kind of blurts out—

“Is it because of Ygritte?”

He blanches, a look of genuine surprise flickering over his features. “What?”

“I heard you talking with Theon and Robb,” she says, not missing the way he pales again, “she’s in trouble. You got her in trouble.”

She speaks in euphemism because she’s too scared to say the word _pregnant_ out loud.

It’s obvious what she’s referring to because Jon’s jaw kind of slides to the side and he sighs. 

“You don’t know anything.” 

He says eventually and his tone isn’t hostile but it’s not kind either. He just sounds tired.

Her eyes and throat suddenly burn. She thinks back on how far they’ve come, of their talks in the garage, and how they had been gravitating towards each other recently, how he'd moved her—like she was a blade of grass and he was the wind. Now, he feels very far away.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” she whispers, her voice painfully honest.

She watches a muscle in his jaw jump.

He doesn’t reply, so she says—

“You shouldn’t have kissed me.”

He does reply this time—she wishes he hadn’t.

“No,” he says quietly, “I shouldn’t have.”  
  


* * *

  
There’s a new girl at school called Jeyne and Sansa suddenly realises she’s been so wrapped up in herself, she’s never spoken to her.

From the entrance of the lunch hall, she can see her sitting at her table, eating and chatting with Alys and Myranda. She decides to introduce herself, clutching her tray in her hand as she walks over.

They have their backs to her so they can’t see her approaching—but she can hear what they’re talking about.

“Look, I _love_ the Starks, I do,” Alys is chattering and the " _but"_ in her voice makes Sansa pause, “but you should stay away from Robb.”

Sansa freezes, her hands gripping the tray a little tighter.

Myranda joins in.

“We saw you talking downtown the other day. I know he’s _gorgeous,_ ” she sighs, “and charming and we all love an older guy but… there are rumours about him.”

Sansa stays rooted to the spot, half because she wants to hear what they’re going to say, half because she physically _can’t move._

“I was just asking where the post office was," the new girl says politely, and then adds, "but what rumours?” 

“He was going steady with this girl—Margaery,” Alys says, leaning in as though to whisper conspiratorially, “and now they say he got her pregnant. She hasn’t been seen in _ages_ and they say she had a _procedure_ … and it went wrong. Like, it was botched.”

Sansa feels sick—and then Myranda is joining in.

“Like, she got _sepsis_ or something from a rusty knife.”

Suddenly the world seems to slot into place. It all makes sense. The strain on her brother—“ _I didn’t mean for it to get so fucked up”—_ the way Margaery has disappeared, the clench to Jon’s jaw as he stood in the kitchen and muttered, _“you don’t know anything.”_

It’s Robb, she realises with a heavy heart. _Robb_ is the boy who got someone in trouble.

She wants her Dad. She suddenly misses him with a force that makes her panic. He would know what to say. He would know what to do.

She believes it, but her fierce sense of loyalty still rears its head. She doesn’t want them talking about her brother like that, like he was bad. He wasn’t bad, and it must have been a mistake, and if Margaery was really hurt, he would be there for her. Because that’s who he was— _is._

“You don’t know anything,” she repeats Jon’s words, making them all turn to look at her.

Alys and Myranda’s eyes widen, guilty looks sweeping over their faces, and their mouths open and close. Sansa thinks they look stupid—like stupid, dumb fish who should just mind their own business.

“Sansa, I’m sorry—”

“You shouldn’t be talking shit about my brother,” she snaps, interrupting Myranda’s excuse before she can make it, “that’s not true. None of that is true.”

Alys shifts awkwardly. Myranda looks upset. New girl Jeyne looks like she wants to be _anywhere_ but here.

“Torrhen told me,” Alys references her brother.

Anger rages through Sansa’s veins, a fierce desire to protect her own flaring inside her.

“Well, _Torrhen_ doesn’t know shit either,” she says stubbornly, blinking back her rage, and she takes a step back, “don’t ever talk about my family.”

She finds somewhere else to sit at lunch—and tries to ignore how her hands are shaking.  
  


* * *

  
Robb goes pale like a ghost when she tells him.

He asks what she wants for dinner, because Mom is still at Aunt Lysa’s and she won’t come home, and instead, Sansa replies—

“You got Margaery pregnant.”

It’s not a question.

He flinches.

He turns to look at her and his eyes are glassy, like he’s only just coming to terms with it himself.

“Who told you that?” he asks quietly.

“Does it matter?”

He doesn’t reply, his jaw clenching, so she sighs.

“I heard you talking about it with the guys. I thought it was Jon and Ygritte at first.”

He sighs, running a hand over his beard, and he looks like Jon. Melancholy and brooding and nothing like the playful Robb she knows and loves.

“I was asking him what he would do _if_ it were him and Ygritte.”

She _hates_ herself for the wave of relief that crashes over her. Jon _is_ different and he doesn’t go around kissing girls and getting them pregnant and she _is_ special. She pushes it down because that is so _not_ what’s important right now—not when Robb is suffering.

“The girls at school were talking too,” she doesn’t think it’s necessary to go into any more detail than that and she asks what she’s really concerned about, “is Margaery okay? They said she had a… _procedure_. And it went wrong.”

She winces.

She’s seventeen years old and she can’t say the word _abortion._

Robb looks like he’s in pain.

“We talked about it and she didn’t… want it and okay, maybe I didn’t either. And that’s _fine_ , we’re young and it’s her decision. But all that other stuff is bullshit. There were no secrets or backstreet surgeries or fucking rusty knives.” 

He looks so upset and Sansa aches for him. She also realises it’s the most he’s spoken to her in months.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Robb laughs and it’s all flat and dry and wrong.

“I was… ashamed, I guess. But relieved? I don’t know. I just wanted to be there for her and I _am,_ I always will be, but she’s so upset, she won’t talk to me. And Mama won’t talk to me. And I’m doing a fucking shit job of looking after all of you too.”

He’s not making any sense so Sansa just takes a step towards him and takes his hand—because that _does_ make sense.

“You’re not Daddy,” she says quietly and judging by the heavy look that sweeps over his features, she thinks she’s hit the nail on the head, “no-one expects you to be.”

He exhales, short and sharp and painful.

“I don’t know what to do, Sans,” he says and he sounds broken.

She squeezes his hand.

“Your best,” she answers quietly, “that’s all we can do.”

They stay up for hours just talking and the circumstances are awful, but it’s still nice. He tells her how much he cares about Margaery, how he feels when she walks in a room, and Sansa knows she’s young, but it sure as hell sounds like love. She doesn’t say that though. She’ll let him work it out.

She tells him to talk to Margaery, to not let her hide. She’s been through something huge and devastating and she’ll need a shoulder to cry on. She’ll need him, the only person who can truly understand because what was inside her was _his_ too. There’s not much they can do about the rumours—it’s high school and people will always talk shit—but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is Margaery and helping her through this. She makes him promise not to bury it, to make sure he’s there for her.

Somewhere near midnight, she notices the cracks in his armour. His eyes are glassy and his throat moves with every swallow. He never cries. He didn’t even cry when Daddy died, his jaw clenched tight and his face impassive as he was lowered into the ground.

But now, the blue eyes they share are watering, and he closes them. When they open again, they’re bloodshot and tears slip out.

Sansa’s chest tugs painfully and she wraps him up in a hug.

She holds him while he cries, wishing she could fix it.  
  


* * *

  
She finds Jon sitting on the porch again one evening.

From where they lay on his thighs, she can see his fingers twitching. He wants to smoke. She realises she hasn’t seen him with a cigarette since she asked him not to. It makes her chest feel funny—and then she’s sitting down next to him.

“You should have told me,” she whispers eventually.

He doesn’t need to ask what she’s referring to.

“Wasn’t my place.”

She feels annoyed. It wasn’t his place to let her think he’d kissed her after he’d gotten another girl pregnant, either.

When she sighs, she can see her breath creating billowy clouds in the cool night air. She remembers when they were boys, him and Robb would run around in the yard at night and pretend to be dragons, breathing fire at each other. 

She used to think he was so stupid back then. Now everything _but_ him seems stupid.

“Why did you lie?” she asks.

“I didn’t lie.”

She rolls her eyes, letting out a little exasperated sigh.

“You let me believe you’d slept with Ygritte.”

“I have slept with Ygritte.”

She wants to scream. He’s trying to push her away. She knows what he’s doing, he’s so depressingly predictable. And the painful ache that surges through her at the reminder of his past relationship is depressingly predictable too.

“Jon,” she says shortly, her tone clipped.

He sighs again, running both hands over his face. When he looks at her, his eyes are dark and stormy.

“I let you believe it because it doesn’t matter. It might as well have been true.”

“No,” she shakes her head, “that would hurt me—and you’d never hurt me.”

“It shouldn’t hurt you, that’s the point,” he says gently, “ _I_ shouldn’t hurt you. I shouldn’t have touched you.”

Those words _do_ hurt and she purses her lips into a thin line.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s _true_ ,” he insists, “I haven’t so much as looked at Ygritte in months, but I still shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“I wanted you to,” she tries weakly.

He shakes his head again, his fingers tapping an uneven tune on his thigh.

“You don’t know what you want.”

Anger flares red hot in the pit of her stomach.

“Right, I’m just a kid,” she bites out bitterly, “but I wasn’t a kid when you kissed me, or kissed my neck, or spread my legs on the kitchen counter and I felt your—”

“Jesus, Sansa.”

“Well, it’s true,” she says stubbornly, her throat thick with emotion, “why are you pushing me away?”

His eyes are steely and dark as he stares straight ahead.

“Because I'm not for you," he says, "because the way I think about you… when I think about you... it’s not right.”

His gruff voice carries in the wind, something melancholy and low and affecting.

“And when do you think about me?”

He laughs but there’s no humour in it. It’s a bitter, pained sound.

“All the time.”

She feels the words in her chest, a dull ache. She understands he doesn’t want to betray Robb, but surely Robb will want her to be with someone who’s good to her. And she knows Jon would be so good to her.

All those things he makes her feel—he can’t just take them away now. Especially not now she knows he feels them too.

“I think about you too,” she says quietly, noticing his jaw clench again, “the boys at school… they’re not good to me like you’re good to me.”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” he asks eventually.

Her expression is resolute when she looks at him.

“No, I’m not going to let you go.”

The correction she makes is small but significant and he sighs again.

This time, when she goes to place her hand over his, he doesn’t push her away. He gives another exhale, one of soft defeat, and lets her entwine their fingers.

It’s not everything she wants—but it’s something.


	6. Chapter 6

It starts like any other, the day Bran falls from the sky.

Back when Mama still cared and Daddy was alive, he was kept safe by their concern. When they caught him scaling the bricks of a building or up a tree that was too high, Mama would shout at him and Daddy would go all quiet. He would say he was _disappointed,_ not angry, and somehow that was always worse.

Now Daddy was gone and for all intents and purposes, Mama was too, and so Bran thinks it’s a good idea to go climbing again.

Sansa is in the kitchen when she hears his scream, blood curdling and loud.

She drops the plate she's washing up, the clank as the china hits the sink penetrating the silence. She rushes out the back door and is vaguely aware of Robb behind her.

“What happened?” he’s asking in a panicked rush of breath, but she can’t answer him. She just races to Bran who is curled into a ball, moaning into the dewy grass.

She drops to her knees, her eyes frantically flitting over him, searching for damage. There’s mud and dirt smeared on his face and a rip in his shorts, but no blood. She supposes that doesn’t mean much; he could have broken something or have internal injuries. She swallows her fear, panic gripping her throat. 

Briefly, she’s aware of Rickon peering down at them from the treehouse.

“I told him not to!” he’s crying, fat tears that roll down his flushed cheeks, “I said it was too high!”

Sansa glances up at the huge tree towering over them, the one that Bran must have fallen from. She can’t see which branch broke, where he slipped and from what height, and she suddenly feels sick.

He’s not making much noise anymore, all the colour drained from his clammy face, and she brushes the hair back from his forehead.

“Come on, Rickon,” Robb says sternly, tapping on the bark of the tree that holds the house, the one Daddy built all those years ago, “come down now.”

He’s put his best adult voice on, firm and strong, but Sansa can tell he’s as scared as she is.

“Let’s get you to the hospital,” she breathes to Bran, “can you walk?”

He shakes his head and his eyes are glassy.

She tips her chin, beckoning for Robb to come pick him up. She moves over to Rickon in the meantime and holds her arms out. When he's finished carefully climbing down the tree, she lifts him away with two hands under his armpits and puts him on the ground. He grabs her hand and holds on tight.

She watches Robb pick Bran up, one arm hooking under his knees and the other under his shoulders. 

Dread settles into the pit of her stomach as they rush to the car.

“Robb,” she's briefly aware of Bran’s whisper, his fear carrying in the wind, “I can’t feel my legs.”  
  


* * *

  
Sansa’s head is buried between her legs as they sit in the Emergency Room.

Rickon is being annoying and impatient, running up and down the clinical tiles and irritating everyone. Robb’s impatient too; Sansa can see his thigh skittishly jumping up and down as they wait for news.

Eventually, she can’t stand it anymore and she places her hand over it.

She glances up to look at him and he gives a wry smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Is he going to be okay?” she asks, even though she knows he can’t give her an answer.

He does anyway.

“He’s going to be _fine_ ,” he insists.

“How do you know?”

She watches his jaw tick.

“Because he has to be,” he says quietly.

Suddenly there’s a woosh of air as the automatic doors slide open and then their mother is rushing inside.

She looks panicked and upset and very, _very_ tired.

Her face is devoid of makeup and there are wrinkles in her clothes and around her eyes. Her hair is loose and a bit wild, free from the sophisticated, pretty updos she used to wear. Sansa remembers when she was little, she would spend hours in-front of the mirror trying to copy the styles.

“Mama?” she asks, tears stinging behind her eyes, because _yes_ , she’s angry at her and _yes,_ she's made bad choices—but she still needs her and she’s _missed_ her.

Robb leans in to whisper in her ear.

“I called her while you were on the phone to Hot Pie’s Mom,” he explains, referencing her panicked call to the boy’s mother, who insisted _of course_ Arya can stay the night.

Catelyn’s eyes are bloodshot when she sees them.

Rickon rushes straight to her, clinging to her leg. She winces, a heavy, guilty look passing over her features, before her shaking fingers drift down to rake through his wild curls.

“Where is he?” she asks, a terrified note to her voice, “is he okay?”

When he speaks, Robb’s voice is gentle, but Sansa stubbornly turns her head away and clenches her jaw. She doesn’t relax, not even when her teeth start to ache.

“He’s being looked at by the trauma doctors,” he explains, standing up and gesturing for her to take his seat, “they say there’s damage to his legs, but they don’t know the extent of it yet.”

She nods, a rush of breath escaping her in a shaky exhale.

When she sits down, Rickon climbs into her lap. He’s missed her too.

They sit in silence for a while before Sansa breaks it.

“Where have you been?” her voice must sound cold because Robb and her mother both flinch.

“Lysa’s,” she says quietly, tipping her chin back slightly as Rickon snuggles into her and buries his face in her neck, “I couldn’t—I couldn’t cope.”

The words lodge in her throat.

Sansa doesn’t think it’s good enough. 

“None of us could— _can,_ ” she corrects herself because it isn’t getting any easier, “we _all_ lost Daddy. Not just you. You should’ve been here.”

Catelyn’s bottom lip trembles but Sansa doesn’t feel guilty. She needs to hear it. She needs to understand she had responsibilities and she ran away from them—and they’ve all been hurting so much in the meantime.

Robb’s anger must have faded a little because he called her and he’s not shouting at her. He’s just running a hand over his face. He looks tired— _exhausted—_ like he just wants it over.

“I’m sorry,” Catelyn says eventually, her voice catching on a sob, “I don’t know what else to say. I’m so sorry, baby.”

She starts to cry and Rickon stares at her, blinking confusedly.

Sansa sighs. It’s not everything, it doesn’t fix everything, and she’s still angry, but it’s a start. They have to focus on Bran now and no matter what’s happened, he’s still her son.

“You have to stay now,” Sansa practically orders, her tone fierce as she stares her down, “no more running away.”

“No more.”

“Promise me.”

Catelyn nods, her throat moving as she swallows. “I promise.”

Sansa turns to look straight ahead. Her chest too tight, she stares furiously at an anti-smoking sign on the wall. She thinks of Daddy.

“Don’t go anymore, Mama,” she whispers.

Catelyn’s hand reaches for her. She hesitates for a moment before she places it over hers on her thigh.

Sansa doesn’t push her away.  
  


* * *

  
When the doctor comes to tell them about Bran, painful memories sear through Sansa’s mind.

“Hi, I’m Dr Mordane,” the lady says kindly.

 _“Hello, I’m Dr Luwin,”_ Sansa hears.

“I have the results from Bran’s CT scan.”

_“I’m sorry to say it’s cancer. It’s already spread through the lungs.”_

“Unfortunately, his leg is broken in two places. It’s a nasty break, but we’ll put him in plaster and he’ll be fine. The scan showed no other internal injuries, which is the main thing.”

_“A year at the most. Likely closer to six months.”_

Sansa closes her eyes, pushing back the memories, because Bran is _fine._

“So he’s okay? He’s not, like… _paralysed_ or anything?” Robb asks and it comes out like a dirty word, all quiet and scared.

The doctor shakes her head.

“No, he’ll walk again just fine.”

Sansa hears her mother’s trembling sigh of relief.

“We would like to keep him in overnight for some observation,” Dr Mordane says, “he has a concussion too so I just want to keep an eye on that.”

Robb nods and looks to Sansa.

“I’m gonna call Jon and ask him to pick you and Rickon up,” he says and Sansa’s chest constricts predictably, “Mama and I will stay with Bran for a bit, but you’ve got school in the morning.”

She frowns, thinking that makes her sound like a baby, but she doesn’t want to argue right now. She doesn’t want to make things harder.

She just nods and is grateful that Bran’s okay.

She’s not sure she believes in God anymore, but she thanks him anyway.  
  


* * *

  
When Jon arrives in his beat up Ford Mustang, Rickon won’t go with him.

“I want to stay with Mama,” he whines, still surgically attached to her leg.

Jon gives Catelyn a little awkward nod of acknowledgement when he sees her, his hand coming up to rub at his neck.

“It’s getting late, Rickon,” Robb tries but the boy furiously shakes his head again. He’s just got Mama back and he’s not letting her go.

Robb sighs, running a hand over his face, but he’s too tired to argue.

“Alright,” he relents, “we won’t stay for too long anyway. Can you take Sansa, Jon?”

Jon’s eyes slide from her to his friend and back again.

“Sure,” he says but his voice is a little tight; Sansa wonders why.

She kisses Rickon and Robb on the cheek and even gives her Mom a hug. She smells like peaches and soap—the _same—_ and she closes her eyes, holding her a little tighter than she means to.

They walk through the hospital parking lot and when they reach his car, Jon opens the door for her. She thinks it’s very gentlemanly and the sort of thing a _boyfriend_ would do and then that ache in her chest is back again.

He doesn’t speak until they’re on the main road.

 _The Rolling Stones_ are playing through the radio and Jon’s fingers tap an uneven tune on the steering wheel.

“So your Mom’s back?” he asks quietly.

Sansa nods, staring out of the window. The sun is setting, the sky glowing red and amber, and the air is balmy and warm.

“It took one of us _literally_ being rushed to hospital,” her voice is dry, “but yeah.”

He gives a little indecipherable hum.

“I’m glad Bran’s okay.”

She nods again because she is too—but then, he nearly _wasn’t._ She feels a rock in the pit of her stomach. He could have been paralysed. He could have had internal injuries. He still has a broken leg so it’s not nothing, and she could have lost him like she lost Daddy. He could have been changed forever, like Mama and Robb.

She feels sick. She feels panicky. She looks to Jon to ground her.

“Let’s be alone for a little while,” she whispers.

“We are alone,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road.

She reaches for him, placing a hand on his thigh. She feels him tense.

“Let’s be _alone_.”

His shoulders stiffen.

“Sansa…”

“When did you stop seeing me as just Robb’s sister?” she blurts out then. He looks as surprised to hear the question as she is to say it, and a muscle in his jaw ticks.

He kind of rolls his shoulders and gives a heavy sigh. It’s not because he doesn’t know the answer though, because then he’s murmuring—

“Your Dad’s funeral.”

She blinks, surprised, and folds her hands in her lap. The sun still streaks red across the sky and Mick Jagger’s still singing and she waits for him to elaborate.

“Obviously you were all devastated and it was… shit to see…” he pauses and tries to find the words, “…but you were so strong. You kept adjusting Rickon’s tie so he looked presentable and you made sure all the food was laid out and that you had enough tissues for your Mom. You were polite to the guests and composed and your voice never broke, not even when you did that speech, and I just thought— _fuck_ , when did she get so brave? When did she grow up and where was I? Because I’d never seen you like that before.”

She stares at him as he drives, stunned by the revelation.

“Like what?”

His jaw ticks again.

“Like you were… a _woman_ or something,” he winces at his own admission, "Shit, Sansa, I don’t know.”

She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth.

“You still call me a kid.”

The corner of his mouth curves under his beard.

“Yeah well, you’ve got a lot to learn.”

Emboldened by his revelation, _thrilled_ by it, she lets her fingers dance up his thigh a little. Her fingers graze his crotch and he stiffens again. He makes a deep, tortured noise.

“You could teach me,” she whispers heavily.

“Christ, Sansa.”

She feels her pulse between her legs.

“I mean it,” she says throatily, serious now, “you’re the only one who really sees me. When I talk, you actually _listen,_ and you care about my opinion and I see you differently too. So just… don’t take me home yet. Take me somewhere where it can be just us. Be alone with me.”

She wants to find a place that’s theirs, without the ghosts at home and the pain and the memories of when he was just Robb’s best friend and she was just Robb’s little sister. She wants to forget Robb for a little while. She wants to forget everything—for his hands and his mouth and his touch to drown it out.

“I’m not your hero,” he says lowly, all rough and conflicted and that’s _exactly_ what he is but she can’t tell him that, “I’m not some kind of saviour.”

She doesn’t care _what_ he is as long as he’s hers.

The warning is a little futile because he’s pulling into a dark, quiet side street anyway—because he pretends to be tough and in control, but he’s a slave to her affection.

The silence is tense and heavy when the engine stutters to a halt and the Stones stop playing.

It pulses like a living thing between them and then he’s rumbling—

“Get in the back.”

A shudder traces down her spine at his tone, all low and commanding, and she unclicks her seat belt and does as she’s told.

The leather is smooth and cool on her flushed skin. Her heart flutters wildly in her chest and she’s struck by the irrational fear that he might hear it.

“Lay down,” he husks.

She does.

He slides in next to her and then he’s on top of her. His knee rests on the seat by her hip and his other foot is on the floor and she feels hot and tingly and _surrounded_ by him.

He leans in, one last flicker of hesitation passing over his tortured features as his mouth hovers over hers. Her eyes flutter shut, her heart pounding in her throat, as she feels his warm breath wash over her lips. He’s waiting for her, she realises. He wants her to make the first move.

So she does. She leans up and presses her lips to his.

He breathes into the kiss, his mouth soft and pliant as he lets her set the pace. When she flicks her tongue out, he groans and opens his mouth for her. Her hands sink into his hair, tangling through loose curls, before one slides to his jaw. She cups his face, feels the grit of his beard against her palm.

She’s never been so close to him before and she feels all of him, every line, every hard muscle. He feels like a man and he smells like a man and he _kisses_ like a man. It's nothing like her clumsy fumbles with Loras.

She doesn’t have much experience but she’s pretty sure Jon's ruined her for everyone else.

“Is this okay?” he pulls away to rasp in her ear. 

She feels wild. Delirious. Her lips are puffy and the windows are starting to fog up and she feels like a _teenager,_ frantically making out in the backseat of a boy’s car.

She feels _normal._

“It’s perfect,” she corrects and he gives her this gentle sort of smile that makes her heart ache, and then he’s kissing her neck. The rasp of his beard slides over her throat. It scratches and burns; she’s sure there’ll be a mark there tomorrow. He sucks an open mouthed kiss over her collarbone then and that will _definitely_ leave a mark and she blushes wildly at the thought.

She wants more—she tells him as much.

“ _Please_ ,” she whispers, grabbing his wrist and urging it down her body.

He stiffens for one, solitary moment. 

“I’m going to hell,” he mutters—and then his hand slips between her thighs.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update in two days! Who am I?! you only have yourself and your lovely comments to blame😏

Sansa and Jon fall into a routine.

It’s something fragile and unspoken. They don’t ask questions. She doesn’t ask what this is or what they are. One day, she sneaks a condom from Robb’s drawer and puts it in her bra and when they’re kissing and panting on the backseat and she pulls it out, he runs a tired hand over his face and doesn’t ask where she got it from. He gently closes her fingers around the foil package and tells her _no_.

She chooses to hear _not yet._

He touches her down there. His hands are soft and strong and safe. His mouth never ventures below her neck. He never asks her to touch him. When her hand drifts below his belt, he always groans and grabs her wrist, entwining their fingers and bringing them back up to her body. Sometimes it looks like it physically pains him to do it—but he always does.

He seems to like touching her. When her toes curl and that strange wave crashes over her and steals her breath, his eyes are always dark and glassy. He likes to watch her face, to drink in her reactions. She would be embarrassed, but there’s something about that wild look he gets that means she’s not.  
_  
"You’re so pretty,”_ he mutters sometimes while she’s falling apart, his fingers playing her like an instrument, his dark eyes flitting over her flushed face, “ _so fucking pretty, Sansa.”_

She soon finds herself addicted to the feeling, to the pleasure his talented hands wring from her. She doesn’t have any other experience, but she’s pretty sure no-one else could play her body the way he does.

He never touches her anywhere but the backseat of his car.

She’s in his lap now, her thighs bracketed either side of him.

Her hands are raking through his curls, the band that had been tying them back discarded on the car’s floor.

Her hips are rolling gently, searching for a friction she can’t find, and his mouth tastes like mint. It’s different from the first time they kissed, when she tasted smoke on his tongue. She hasn’t seen him with a cigarette in weeks. He hasn’t explicitly said it’s because she asked him not to smoke (they don’t talk about that sort of stuff) but she thinks that’s why, and it means a lot.

One of her hands slips down his face to his chest. She feels the even beat of his heart. He’s always so _bloody_ calm. Her own heart feels like it’s going to burst like fire between her ribs.

One of his hands cradles her face, her hair falling like a red curtain between them, protecting and shielding them from the world. The other hand has slipped under the waistband of her flared jeans, fitting over the curve of her behind.

She wants him to touch her. She _always_ wants him to be touching her. She wants to touch him. She just _wants._

Her other hand is still in his hair and when she pulls back, his lips are red and wet and his gaze is a little hooded. She can feel heat blooming under her cheeks.

His eyes are black. It looks like it takes him a moment to focus.

She just looks at him for a beat, her fingers stroking through his curls. He leans into her touch. A little, contended hum rolls from his chest.

She thinks of Danny Zuko.

“Why don’t you ever wear your hair slicked back?” she asks.

When he speaks, his voice is a little lower, deep and husky.

“Would you like that?” 

She shrugs, feigning indifference. “Would it matter?”

She hopes it would. She hopes he’d want to look good for her. She’s definitely been spending longer in-front of the mirror for him, making sure her hair’s perfectly curled and her makeup is in place.

“Maybe,” he hums, as evasive as ever, then says, “you trying to turn me into John Travolta?”

She sits back slightly in her surprise, her bum on his thighs.

“How do you know about that?” she asks about her obsession.

“I know a lot about you.”

She swallows, her fingers leaving his curls to trail across his face. His eyes drift shut when she traces a scar over his eyebrow.

“I want to know more about _you_ ,” she says quietly, “like how you got this.”

His eyes are still shut as he sighs.

“Robb,” he says eventually, “we were about thirteen or fourteen. He pushed me through a glass door.”

She quirks an amused brow. “I don’t remember that.”

He shrugs, sitting back slightly. His head falls back against the headrest. His hands drift to her thighs and his fingers flex there.

“It was an accident,” he murmurs and then something melancholy flashes across his face, “unlike what he would do to me if he saw us now.”

“Stop that,” she chides gently.

He tries to smile but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Do you really want to talk about my brother when you have me in your lap?” she attempts to be alluring, her voice dropping a note, “besides—who knows how he would react? He’s very different now, but I think I know how to bring him back.”

Jon arches a brow, his thumb tapping absentmindedly on the button of her jeans.

He narrows his eyes.

“What's that look?” he asks slowly, suspiciously.

She lifts her chin stubbornly.

“I’m going to talk to Margaery.”

Jon stiffens under her. “Sansa…”

“Don’t tell me not to meddle,” she reads his mind, her voice firm, “I _have_ to meddle. I have to help.”

She had caught Robb looking at a photograph of Margaery the other day. There was a little crease between his brows and his mouth was downturned and he looked so _sad._

She decided then that she had to _do_ something.

Jon rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips.

“I _like_ helping. It makes me feel useful,” she elaborates, her fingers trailing over his face again. She settles on his mouth and his lips part under her touch. “I’ve been putting out fires all over the place lately.”

He blinks at her for a few seconds before he gives an incredulous laugh. It’s a nice sound. She thinks he should laugh more.

She leans in and presses her lips to his again.

He opens his mouth for her, letting her tongue slide inside. He's not laughing anymore. She thinks she’s better at kissing now. She seems to have picked up the rhythm and he seems more affected, letting out little breathy noises and groans that spark heat throughout her body.

She undulates her hips again and there are too many frustrating layers of denim between them.

She sighs when he pulls away to mouth at her jaw, her fingers tangling in his curls.

“Jon,” his name falls from her lips in a heated gasp.

“Hmm?”

“I like your hair,” she decides then, “I don’t want you to slick it back.”

She feels the curve of his mouth against her neck.

“Then I won’t.”  
  


* * *

  
Margaery Tyrell lives with her family in a big fancy house downtown.

It’s more like a mansion. It has a white picket fence, lavender wisteria winding intricately around the lattices.

From the outside in, it's easy to believe the Tyrells have everything.

Really, Sansa knows that Margaery’s Dad is never around and she doesn’t have a Mom and maybe that’s why she ended up in her situation. Maybe she had no-one to talk to. The thought makes Sansa sad. Everyone should have someone.

She walks slowly up the driveway, her fingers flexing at her sides. She should have brought something. Mama always said that when you visit someone’s house, you should bring something. But maybe that’s when you’re invited—and Sansa is just turning up.

She falters, feeling uncertain for a moment, before she pushes on.

It’s a Sunday and she didn’t see her at church. She hasn’t seen her in a while, that’s the point, and she hopes she’ll answer the door.

Her fist hovers for a moment in painful indecision before she takes a breath and knocks.

An elderly lady answers. She’s wearing fine clothes and her hair is tied into an elaborate updo, just like how Mama’s used to be.

“Hello dear,” she says kindly, “can I help you?”

Sansa clears her throat.

“Hi, I’m looking for Margaery. Is she in?”

The lady’s curious eyes drift over her body, starting from her pumps to the auburn plait hanging over one shoulder.

“Of course,” she gives a nod, “I’m her grandmother, Olenna. Lovely to meet you.”

She leans back into the house and shouts up the stairs for Margaery.

Silence falls over them as they wait.

After a minute or so, Margaery is making her way down the stairs. When she sees her, she freezes on the bottom step, her hand gripping the bannister.

“Sansa,” she breathes, her voice etched with surprise, and she gently touches her grandmother’s arm as she passes her.

She gestures towards the porch, where two rocking chairs are softly swaying in the summer wind.

“I’ll bring you ladies some lemonade,” Olenna says and then leaves them alone.

Sansa waits for Margaery to sit before she does.

The silence is slightly awkward. It stretches out between them, manifesting in Margaery’s fingers tapping on her knee and Sansa’s tight smile.

Even if the situation were different, Sansa thinks she would still feel uncomfortable.

It was easy to feel intimidated and insignificant in Margaery Tyrell’s presence.

“I wanted to see you,” she says quietly and a muscle in Margaery’s cheek twitches, “I wanted to see if you were well. Are you well?”

She practically grimaces at her own inarticulateness—but Margaery takes pity on her and smiles.

It doesn’t light up her face like it normally does, but it’s a start.

“I’m okay,” she says softly, “it was nice of you to come.”

She’s being polite. Robb comes too. She _is_ cared for and she _is_ loved, but for some reason, she doesn’t want to sit on the porch and drink lemonade with him.

Jon said that after the procedure, Robb waited on her doorstep every day for three weeks. Every day, she would refuse to answer the door, and every day he would be there anyway. Apparently one evening, her Daddy said he would fetch a shotgun if he didn’t get off his property. That made Sansa’s eyes widen, but Jon just laughed and said there was no way the spineless Mace Tyrell had even _seen_ a shotgun. Jon said he shouldn’t have told her any of that, but she was glad that he did.

It was good to know her brother still cared.

Olenna reappears with the drinks and Sansa takes the glass gratefully, mumbling a thank you. The lemonade is tart and sweet on her tongue and it helps quench the awkward dryness in her throat.

“I guess he told you then,” Margaery says quietly, her own glass untouched. It balances precariously on her knee.

She can’t even say Robb’s name.

Sansa’s chest hurts.

“Yeah,” she whispers. Really, Alys and Myranda told her but she doesn’t think Margaery needs to know that, the rumours that are flying around about her. “I’m really sorry you had to go through that.”

Margaery averts her eyes, won’t look at her, but Sansa can see they’re shiny.

“We were so careful,” she whispers, more to herself than to her, “I don’t know how it happened.”

Sansa shifts in her seat. It’s a little awkward because Robb is her brother and she’d rather _die_ than think about him having sex, and if Margaery doesn’t know how it happened, then she sure as hell doesn’t either.

“Maybe it’s not important to know,” she tries with a little shrug, “it’s awful and painful and you didn’t deserve it, but maybe it _doesn’t_ make sense. Maybe sometimes things just _happen_ and we have to try and find a way to get through it.”

Margaery nods, her bottom lip trembling slightly. It looks like it hurts her to breathe.

“We’d broken up,” she says, shaking her head like she can’t make sense of it, “that time you caught me sneaking out of your house… it was just a one-time thing. A moment of weakness. That’s when I got… you know, when it happened.”

Somehow, that makes Sansa even sadder, and not for the same reason as her. She’s sad because she’s pretty certain Robb’s in love with her, and if she loves him too, then that should never be seen as weakness.

“Why did you break up?” she asks.

Margaery’s expression shifts. She looks a little guilty.

“I couldn’t cope with him,” she says honestly, “he changed so much after your Daddy died. He was bad tempered and cold and distant. I just didn’t think he cared about me anymore. Maybe it was selfish to give up on him so quickly.”

Sansa shakes her head because Robb _had_ changed. He was her brother _,_ so she had to deal with that, but Margaery didn’t. She was well within her rights to walk away because he wasn’t her responsibility.

But maybe it isn’t that simple.

“No,” she says quietly. The glass is cool in her hands and her fingers are starting to go numb as she grips it. “That’s not selfish.”

Margaery’s mouth twitches but it’s not quite a smile.

“How is he?” she whispers then, like she can’t help herself.

“Not good,” Sansa replies honestly, “he cried the other day.”

Margaery looks at her for maybe the first time, surprise flickering through her eyes. Sansa thinks Robb would probably kill her if he knew she’d said that, but judging by the look on Margaery’s face, it was worth it. She needs to know he cares too.

“I know I should talk to him,” she says, “I know he’s hurting too. I just—it’s really hard.”

Sansa nods, her expression soft.

“You should take as much time as you need,” she insists, “but I know he just wants to be there for you. He loves you, Margaery. He doesn’t say much, it’s not the Stark way, but it’s obvious. I’ve known him my whole life and I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

Margaery takes a shaky breath, her pretty eyes glittering with tears.

“I love him too,” she admits, “I loved him then—I love him still. We talked about marriage, you know. He told me if I wanted to keep—” she pauses, the words lodging in her throat, something sharp and painful, “—to keep the baby, he would marry me. I could tell he was terrified but he seemed so strong, so determined to do the right thing.”

Sansa smiles. That sounds like her brother. It sounds like her father. He always raised them right.

She thinks about him getting married.

She thinks about him moving away—and her gut twists something ugly and irrational.

 _He was going to leave me too,_ she thinks.

She doesn’t realise she said that out-loud until Margaery’s shaking her head.

“No. You’re… _everything_ to him, Sansa. He said if we couldn’t get a house close by, he would want us to live with your Mom for a little while—because he didn’t want to take you out of school and he wasn't leaving you. You and your brothers and Arya… you’re his priorities. It’s one of the main things I love about him. I’ve never had much of a family.”

They’d gotten a little lost along the way, but the Starks were fiercely loyal. They’d lost Ned, the glue that held them together, but they were still a pack.

They just had to find another way to make the pieces fit.

Sansa reaches over and places her hand on top of Margaery’s.

The other girl tenses, a look of surprise and uncertainty flashing over her features, but Sansa remains resolute.

“You have us,” she insists, “you have me. You don’t have to carry this pain alone. We will help you.”

Margaery’s throat moves as she swallows heavily, and then she gives Sansa’s hand a grateful squeeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so used to writing smut, I literally have to reign myself in🤦🏼♀️hope this was okay.


	8. Chapter 8

“It’ll be _fun!_ ” Myranda insists.

“We haven’t spent time together in _ages_ ,” Alys adds in a whine intended to guilt trip.

Sansa fights the urge to roll her eyes. A party at Ramsay Bolton’s house will _not_ be fun and they haven’t spent time together in ages because Alys and Myranda don’t seem to _give a shit_ about her. It’s all fake, it makes Sansa angry, but she sighs in defeat anyway—because she’s seventeen and lonely and the politics of female friendships confuse her.

Maybe it’s normal for your friends to annoy you, she thinks. Maybe it’s normal that you know for sure they bitch about you behind your back and you don’t talk about anything of substance. Maybe that’s just what being a teenage girl _is._

And so she sweeps a little green glitter on her eyelids, the one Mama says makes her eyes ‘pop’, and some cherry flavoured lipgloss too. Jon wouldn’t be caught dead at a high school party, but secretly she hopes maybe she can sneak away and they can fool around in his car and he’ll tell her he likes the taste.

She tries not to let it rattle her, how much she’s come to need him. She tries not to think about how much she thinks about _him,_ how much she misses him when he’s gone, how she just always, _always_ wants to be near him. It makes her feel uneasy, a little helpless, and she wants so badly to be a strong, independent woman.

So she fakes a smile, follows Alys, Myranda and new girl Jeyne into Ramsay Bolton’s house, and forces Jon Snow to the back of her mind.  
  


* * *

  
Two hours and too many drinks later, Sansa is still not having a good time.

They’re all three or four years off legal, and the drinks are in red plastic cups, poured in unsophisticated and strong measures. Sansa takes even sips and tries not to grimace as the liquid scorches her throat. It leaves an unpleasant burn in her chest.

KC and the Sunshine Band are blaring out through the Boltons’ fancy turntable. Alys and Myranda are already drunk. Sansa can see them giggling too loudly as they flirt with boys and stumbling as they dance in their too-high heels. Sansa doesn’t want to dance. She doesn’t want to get drunk and she doesn’t want to flirt with boys—not when she has a man waiting for her.

She crosses her arms over her chest, her half-empty plastic cup dangling from her fingers. Ramsay’s Daddy owns a hardware store downtown and he has his fingers in other pies too. He’s one of those men where you’re not quite sure what he does, but you know it’s probably not good, and he’s not around much. She knows that Ramsay doesn’t have a Mama, or any kind of female influence, and despite throwing these parties all the time, he doesn’t have many friends either.

Sansa thinks Ramsay Bolton is very predictable.

She wants to leave.

She debates it for ten more minutes, standing alone in the corner, before she sighs and downs the rest of her drink. She thinks its whiskey and she shudders as it stings her chest. The warmth that spreads through her after is more pleasant, it makes her feel brave, and she tosses the empty cup on the messy table to join a sea of red plastic.

She walks over to her friends. When Alys notices her, her face falls at her expression and lack of drink.

“Sansa, _no…_ ” she moans before Sansa can say anything.

She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth and gives a little shrug.

“Sorry, I’m not feeling great,” she lies, “and I told Robb we were having a girl’s night.”

Myranda clumsily grabs her hands, her eyes glassy as she squeezes them.

“So you’ve already lied,” she whines, “what’s the harm in staying a little while longer?”

Sansa sighs, her skin prickling uncomfortably. Next to them, new girl Jeyne looks uncomfortable too—out of place.

When Sansa catches a glimpse of Joffrey Baratheon in the corner, throwing her his cruel grin, she knows she _definitely_ wants out of here.

“No, it’s cool, I’ll just wait for my brother on Alys' porch,” she says. It’s dark but Alys only lives down the block, a short walk away.

She catches Myranda’s eye roll before the girl can stop it.

“What?” Sansa asks, releasing a sound that’s half a laugh, half a scoff.

“Myranda…” Alys starts, perhaps trying to stop her before she speaks.

But Myranda is too drunk to stop, her tongue loosened and her eyes growing cold.

“ _God_ Sansa, you’re so _boring,_ ” she exclaims, making Alys and Jeyne bristle next to her, “you used to be up for anything, what happened to you?”

Sansa blinks at her, her throat burning.

“What _happened_ to me?” she repeats incredulously, “I don’t know if you’re aware, but my Daddy died.”

“Yeah, we know,” Myranda fires back immediately, her voice deadpan and empty, “we get it. Maybe change the record once in a while, huh?”

Sansa stiffens, feeling like she's been punched in the gut. Alys is babbling an apology she can’t hear. Myranda doesn’t look sorry as she pushes past her and stumbles away on unsteady feet.

“Sansa, she doesn’t really believe that,” Alys tries, but Sansa shakes her head.

“Yeah, she does,” she mutters, “and so do you.”

She’s tired of dancing around this, the fact that they’ve all changed and grown apart. She’s starting to realise that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Her world has been turned upside down, and it hasn’t landed in the same place.

So she pushes past her and ignores her when she tries to call her back.

She’s just about reached the door when she hears a voice behind her. 

“Hey, wait up!”

She turns around, arching a brow when she sees new girl Jeyne reach her.

They blink at each other for a few awkward seconds before Jeyne breathlessly asks—

“Can I come with?”

Sansa stills, surprised, because they don’t know each other. She could count on one hand the number of words she’s even spoken to her.

“Why would you want to do that?”

Jeyne shrugs. “This party blows.”

It’s a simple answer, but Sansa supposes it’s enough.

She stares at her for a moment before she laughs.

“Yeah okay,” she nods, “let’s split.”

Jeyne nods right back. “Cool. I’ll just grab my jacket.”

She flits away as quickly as she appeared and then Sansa is hovering awkwardly by the door. Myranda’s nastiness sticks to her like a bad smell, a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. She wants to go home. She wants to curl up on the sofa and watch a movie with Arya and Robb. She wants to eat ice cream with Rickon and listen to Bran proudly show her all the signatures on his cast again. She wants Jon.

Her mood sours further when Ramsay Bolton appears, casually swaggering over to her with a vodka bottle in his hand.

“Want some?” he offers. She shakes her head.

He shrugs and runs his tongue over his teeth.

“Leaving already?” he asks, his lips curling into a grin he probably thinks is alluring. Sansa thinks he looks like a shark. She tries to stand tall so he won’t smell blood in the water.

“Yeah,” she forces the apology to melt on her tongue before she can make it—because she’s sick of saying sorry for things that aren’t her fault. She’s not going to apologise for changing or growing up or for her Daddy dying. She’s not going to apologise for taking what she wants—and she’s certainly not going to apologise to Ramsay Bolton.

“And you weren’t even going to say goodbye to the host?” he asks, mock scandalised, and leans in too close. She can smell alcohol on his stale breath. “That’s a little rude, don’t you think?”

“Sor—no, I just really need to go. My brother will be waiting for me.”

Ramsay rolls his eyes, his hand darting out to slam on the wall when she tries to push past him. She falters, eye level with his forearm, and steps back. He manoeuvres himself so he’s caging her in.

“Come on, princess,” he drawls, “I don’t bite…”

He trails the backs of two fingers down her arm, causing goosebumps to rise to the surface of her skin. He must mistake her skin crawling for a shudder of anticipation because his mouth curves into a smirk again.

“You’re very pretty, Sansa,” he says, his tone dropping a note, “but you already know that, don’t you?”

She clears her throat, her eyes darting around him to try and find Jeyne.

“Thanks,” she says—because she’s nothing if not polite.

But then his hand drifts brazenly to her backside and her patience wears thin.

She pushes him away with two firm hands on his chest. He stumbles slightly in surprise, a slosh of vodka splattering on the floor.

“Don’t touch me,” she spits, her temper flaring.

Ramsay’s gaze widens before it narrows, a cruel glint to his eyes.

“Right,” he drawls sarcastically, his grin twisting like he’s in on a secret; Sansa’s chest constricts in anticipation, “only Jon Snow gets to put his hands on you, is that it?”

She swallows, trying to keep her expression even.

She sniffs and straightens her skirt.

“I don’t do anything with Jon Snow.”

“Sure you do,” Ramsay smirks cruelly, “I saw you two parked down by my Dad’s store a few weeks ago. I didn’t say anything because I thought it could work in my favour. After-all, if you spread your legs for that trash, you must let just about anyone touch you.”

Sansa scoffs, slapping him hard around the ear. He swears at her and she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Sit on it, Bolton,” she sneers, tossing her hair over her shoulder and barging past him.

Jeyne appears just in time, quirking a curious brow when she sees them. Sansa shakes her head in a silent plea for her to drop it and then Jeyne’s tossing her leather jacket around her shoulders and following her outside. The fresh air bites at her as she walks down the steps, dodging the drunk teens making out on the lawn. 

“See you around, Princess!”

She doesn’t turn back, but Ramsay’s mocking laugh carries in the wind.  
  


* * *

  
Jeyne lives in a pretty white house on the same street as Alys.

Sansa protests, but she says she’ll wait with her until Robb arrives, and then they’re sitting on Alys' porch and talking. She’s still the new girl so Sansa tells her little things about school that she doesn’t know yet—like the lunch lady with red hair will always give you an extra lemon cake if you ask and to keep an eye on Mr Baelish’s wandering hands.

She learns that Jeyne is from up north and they laugh as she tries to mimic her accent. She says she doesn’t have any brothers or sisters and Sansa thinks her house must be very quiet. She learns that she saw _Rocky_ in the cinema as many times as Sansa saw _Grease,_ and that she cried for a week when Elvis died. 

And then eventually, as the crickets chirp in the cool night air, Jeyne’s voice goes all small and quiet and she says—

“I lost my Mama last year… so I know how you feel.”

She gives her a small, gentle smile.

That’s the moment Sansa decides she really likes Jeyne Poole.  
  


* * *

  
“Are you sure your friend didn’t need a ride?” Robb asks, his brow furrowing in concern as his fingers drum along the steering wheel.

Jon’s in the passenger’s seat, staring casually out the window. Sansa wishes they were alone.

“No, I told you, she lives on the same street. She just wanted to wait with me until you came.”

“Well, that was nice of her.”

Sansa nods because Jeyne _is_ nice.

“Did you girls have fun?” Jon asks quietly, his eyes flickering to the mirror. She makes eye contact and smiles.

“Yeah, I did,” she says, modifying it slightly, and she realises she isn’t lying.

What Myranda said was shit and Ramsay’s an even _bigger_ shit—but spending time with Jeyne was nice and standing up for herself was nicer still.

They drive in silence for a few minutes before Robb glances at the dashboard and swears under his breath.

“Shit, we need gas.”

“You can stop at the Wawa,” Jon says and his jaw ticks and Sansa wonders if he’s trying not to look at her. It’s the same one he picked her up from the night Joffrey kicked her out of the car. The first time she rode on his bike. The first time he kissed her.

It was only a few months ago, but it feels like a lifetime. She can’t imagine a time when she didn’t need him, when she didn’t rely on him and know the taste of his mouth and the feel of his hands… when she didn’t know _him._

Robb peels into the Wawa, the engine of his beat up Ford Cortina spluttering as he rattles to a stop.

“Sounds like I need to take another look at this baby,” Jon says, his voice lined with amusement as he affectionally taps the dashboard. Robb grimaces and rolls his eyes, before stepping out of the car.

He _really_ needs to trade it in, to get something else, but he won’t because the car was Daddy’s—so Jon has to keep fixing it. Sansa gets the feeling he doesn’t mind. He would do anything for Robb.

The atmosphere blisters once they’re alone, the way it always does. Sansa bites her lip and her eyes keep dragging from Robb outside the window as he fills the car up, to Jon as he sits silently in the front, and back again.

10cc’s _I’m not in love_ is playing through the crackly stereo. Sansa listens to the lyrics as the clearly smitten man stubbornly croons all the ways he’s not in love. He reminds her of Jon.

She watches Robb put the gas pump down and head inside, probably to grab a packet of cigarettes he promises he doesn’t smoke. Sansa’s too grateful for the privacy to be annoyed.

Once she’s sure her brother can’t see, she leans forward, wraps her arms around Jon’s neck from behind, and plants a kiss on his cheek. 

“Sansa,” he groans, his tone a warning.

“ _Jon,_ ” she repeats mockingly, her hands sliding down his chest. He exhales and gently grips her wrists, anchoring them to his chest. He turns his head, his mouth brushing hers.

“Kiss me,” she demands.

He sighs again—but kisses her anyway. It’s a small kiss, brief and perfunctory, and his mouth hovers over hers. His brow quirks curiously.

“You weren’t at Alys', were you?” he murmurs.

She pulls back slightly.

“How’d you know?”

“Because I know you,” he says simply, “I know you haven’t been getting along with her and Myranda.”

It makes her chest hurt a little, the way he remembers. He never knew their names before. 

He kisses her again, short and quick, and quips—

“And you taste like whiskey.”

—then pats her hand and lets her go. 

She’s about to protest but then notices Robb walking out of the gas station. He must have noticed him first. She slumps back in her seat, a blush rising to her cheeks.

“I wanna see you tonight,” she say as Robb gets closer, “and not in the backseat of your car.”

Jon’s grey eyes flicker to hers in the mirror.

“Alright,” he says quietly, surprisingly amiable, “keep your bedroom window open.”

She flushes and nods, pleased that he seems to be coming around.

As he climbs into the driver’s seat, Robb slips a cigarette behind his ear and wordlessly tosses a Marathon bar in her lap. He knows they're her favourite, and that makes her chest hurt too.

They drive in silence and Sansa’s happy enough, but she can’t ignore the strange, warm ache that spreads through her chest every time she sneaks a glimpse at Jon.

 _I’m not in love,_ 10cc’s dulcet tones still vibrate ominously through the stereo, _it’s just a silly phase I’m going through._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were 10cc big in America in the '70s? I don't even know, but "I'm not in love" is a vibeeeee


	9. Chapter 9

“Fuck’s sake,” Jon is muttering under his breath as he climbs through her window, “I haven’t done this since I was sixteen.”

Sansa purses her lips to hold in her laugh, taking his hand and helping him through. She closes it after him, shutting out the cold night air. She closes her drapes for good measure, too.

Then he’s standing in-front of her, in her _room_ and her bed is right _there,_ and the air feels too thin. She wishes she’d bothered to change the decoration from when she was a kid. She wishes she had more grownup stuff and that she’d shoved her stuffed animals under the bed and that it wasn’t so _pink._

Jon doesn’t seem to mind as he gently cups her face. His thumb runs over her cheekbone.

“Hi,” he says softly, his mouth quirking like he can read her mind.

She leans into his touch.

“Hi,” she breathes back.

His thumb drifts from her cheek to her lips. It swipes along the bottom one, parting them under his touch, and then he’s leaning in.

He closes the gap and kisses her.

She sighs into the kiss, her hands drifting up his chest until they loop around his neck. She plays with the hair at the nape of his neck, the strands that have escaped his bun, and opens her mouth when she feels his tongue prod for entrance. She flushes at the moan that escapes her, her pulse pounding between her legs.

She can’t believe how much a mere kiss from him can affect her, heat crawling over her skin like a blanket. He kisses her patiently, his hands anchored on her waist. He never escalates things until she asks and sometimes, not even then.

She pulls away and playfully bites at his lip, revels in the little growl it draws from him. She kisses him again and tugs at his shirt, walking them backwards. Once her knees hit the bed, she twists them around and pushes him onto it. He sits down with a little grunt, his eyes dark as he glances up at her.

She holds his gaze as she climbs into his lap, straddling him. His eyes drop to her lips, his hands gently stroking her thighs, as she captures his mouth again. She licks inside, her tongue tangling with his, and he tastes like mint. She breaks away and kisses his cheek and then his neck, because it feels good when he does that to her. It always makes her toes curl and her body tingle.

“Sansa,” he half-whispers, half-groans, as she licks up his neck and tugs his earlobe between her teeth.

She hums in response, her fingers tugging his dark curls free from the band tying them back. He gives a groan, a little choked sound, when she pulls his hair slightly. It shoots straight between her thighs.

“Sansa—” he murmurs again, leaning back slightly, “—wait.”

She swears, she could _cry._

“What?” she breathes.

"We should talk,” he insists like his eyes aren’t almost black and his jeans aren’t too tight, “I want to hear about your night.”

She sits back on his thighs, her brow arching in surprise.

“Really?” she asks, deadpan.

His mouth tips at the corner again.

“Really,” he says gently.

She doesn’t want to talk. She’s on _fire._ She wants to kiss and feel and lose herself in him, but _then_ —she also likes that he wants more than that. She likes that he cares about _her,_ not just what’s between her legs.

Her hands slide down to his chest and stay there.

“I went to a party.”

Jon arches a brow.

“Whose party?”

Sansa grimaces, already knowing how he’ll react.

“Ramsay Bolton.”

As expected, Jon’s brows pull into a frown, his fingers flexing on her thighs.

“The Bolton’s aren’t good people.”

Sansa huffs, remembering the threatening way Ramsay had cornered her, the sneer on his face and smell of alcohol wafting from him.

“Trust me, I know.”

Jon’s frown deepens.

“What does that mean?” he asks lowly, “did he put his hands on you?”

_"Only Jon Snow gets to put his hands on you, is that it?"_

“Sansa,” Jon’s impatient voice replaces the memory of Ramsay’s as he waits for her response.

She blinks at him for a bit before she gives a heavy sigh.

“No—I mean, a little,” she struggles, “he said I was pretty and then he grabbed my ass.”

“ _Motherfucker_.”

Jon’s growl traces a shudder down her spine. It shouldn’t give her a thrill—it’s not the ‘50s and she doesn’t need a man to protect her honour—but it does. There’s something attractive about his reaction, the way his strong body is pulled taut with restraint beneath her, his eyes dark and his jaw clenched. He looks like he wants to fight—and she knows he would. He would fight for her.

“So much for _I’m not your hero,_ ” she throws his words back at him as she puts on a mocking, brooding accent, “ _I’m not your saviour._ ”

He exhales lightly as she leans in and skims her nose against his sharp cheekbone. She nuzzles into him, tries to make him relax again.

“Don’t tease me,” he grumbles. She feels the vibration under her palm as it rolls from his chest.

She laughs. She thinks that’s rich coming from him.

“Says the boy who danced around me for months.”

He sighs, leaning back. His hands rest on her pink covers. She’s keenly aware that she’s still in his lap and he’s still… _excited_. Her cheeks flush, burning to the touch. She wishes she’d kept the window open.

“I was trying to protect you,” he says, all low and brooding, “you know I’m no good for you.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” she whispers fiercely; she hates it when he gets like this. “You’re _so_ good to me, Jon. You take care of me and I take care of you. Ramsay Bolton’s a shit, but you don’t have to worry about him.”

He gives a little laugh, his frown softening slightly.

“You can look after yourself, huh?”

She nods.

“Yes, I can.”

“Alright,” he says eventually but his shoulders are still a little tense, “but if he touches you again, I want you to tell me.”

“Why? What would you do?”

“Don’t you worry about what I’d do.”

His voice is low and dangerous and it gives her another thrill. She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, her hips shifting slightly. His eyes flicker down, to where she’s still sitting on him, and then they slowly drag up again.

She wants to kiss him again, the air white hot between them, but there’s something else she needs to tell him first.

“He knows about us.”

Jon stills, his eyes dark and stormy.

“How?”

“He saw us in your car a few weeks back. He tried to blackmail me with it so I would let him touch me.”

One of Jon’s hands leaves the bed to wipe tiredly over his face.

“Jesus,” he bites out, “you shouldn’t have to deal with this shit.”

She shakes her head because she’ll deal with all of it and more if it means she gets to be with him.

“It’s alright,” she whispers, touching her fingertips to his face, “I don’t think he really cares.”

“Still,” Jon shifts slightly, his hands coming up to her waist, “maybe we should tell Robb.”

Sansa freezes, moving back like he’s burned her.

“What?”

Jon shrugs.

“I’d prefer it if he heard it from me, rather than Ramsay fucking Bolton.”

Sansa frowns, an unsettling feeling spreading through her bones. She doesn’t want to tell Robb. _How_ can she tell Robb, what they do and what they are, when they’ve never even discussed it themselves?

She doesn’t want him to be mad or even worse, disappointed. She doesn’t want him to ruin this for her. She _knows_ Jon. She knows he’ll torture himself even more if Robb’s angry. He’ll pull away from her. She’s only just got him; she doesn’t want to lose him.

This isn’t Robb’s—it’s _hers._

“Let’s not tell him just yet,” she tries, “let’s keep it for us.”

Jon opens his mouth to reply but she places two fingers on his lips.

“And if Ramsay Bolton opens his fat mouth, I’ll smack him round the head again.”

Jon’s eyes flicker with amusement.

“You did that?”

She nods.

He sits up, takes her face in his hands and fondly murmurs, “ _that’s my girl_ ” against her lips.

She laughs and he kisses her smile.

They stay like that for a while, just kissing and exploring each other’s bodies, before he slowly stands. He never lets go of her, her thighs clinging to his hips, as he twists them and plants her on the mattress. Then Sansa’s on her back on her bed and Jon Snow is on top of her. She feels like pinching herself.

She’s trembling a little, her kiss breathless and her toes curling into the sheets, but his sure and steady hands stop her shaking. He helps her to relax.

When he pulls back to look at her, his mouth wet and a little swollen and his eyes soft for her, she thinks she loves him.

She’s not sure what that is—but this sure as hell feels like it.

“I am, you know,” she whispers, her breath caught in her chest.

He’s resting on his forearms, caging her in, and his thumb strokes her temple.

“You are what?” he asks.

“Yours.”

The look he gives her is indecipherable—and this time, it’s his mouth that slips between her thighs.  
  


* * *

  
The next day is a Saturday and Sansa and Jeyne go for ice cream.

They pick the same—mint chocolate chip—and share a shy sort of smile and then they’re sitting on a bench in the park. It’s still very new between them, this friendship that’s unfolding, but Sansa enjoys it. Jeyne’s easy to be around, there’s no drama, and even though they’re the same age, she seems older somehow. 

They make idle chitchat for a little while before Sansa finds herself blurting out, “do you like my brother?”

She winces as she says it, cursing her lack of tact. Jeyne’s head snaps to look at her, her eyes wide.

But she remembers the conversation she overheard at lunch that time.

_“We saw you talking the other day. I know he’s gorgeous and charming and we all love an older guy but… there are rumours about him.”_

Jeyne sort of blinks back to life and lets out a little laugh.

“No, I don’t like your brother.”

“ _They say he got her pregnant,”_ Alys’ horrified voice echoes in her mind.

Sansa feels a fierce need to defend him.

“I’m pretty sure he’s getting back with his ex anyway,” she sniffs, even though Margaery still hasn’t been round and Robb’s as miserable as ever.

Jeyne’s smile is soft as she tips her head to the side.

“I’m sure he’s a great guy,” she says gently—and Sansa opens her mouth to stubbornly insist he _is—_ but Jeyne’s talking again, “whatever happened with him isn’t my business, and I don’t pay attention to any stupid gossiping. That’s not why I’m not into him.”

Sansa relaxes, slumping back on the bench slightly.

“Alright,” she murmurs. She’s prepared to drop the topic, when Jeyne bites her lip a little coyly and says—

“I like someone else.”

“Really?” Sansa perks up, shifting on the bench to listen intently, “is it anyone I know?”

“Maybe,” Jeyne says, a light blush colouring her cheeks, “I think he might be friends with your brother, actually.”

Sansa quirks a brow, waiting for her to continue.

“His name is Theon.”

Sansa’s eyes widen before she gets her expression in check. She nods slowly, trying to keep her face even, but Theon has a _reputation_ and everyone knows it. Maybe Jeyne doesn’t because she’s new to town, but Theon changes girls more than she changes clothes.

“Theon Greyjoy?” she asks, like it's a common name. 

Jeyne nods, her eyes lighting up and her cheeks going all red. Sansa wonders if that’s what she looks like when someone says Jon’s name.

“Yeah! I met him at the mall pretty much as soon as I got to town. That was like, six months ago.”

“Six months, huh?” Sansa tries to take it all in, “so it’s pretty serious?”

She doubts that because it’s _Theon,_ but still, the girl beams and nods.

“He says he loves me.”

Sansa’s gut twists in an ugly combination of dread, worry and a touch of jealousy.

Jon’s never said that.

Jon never says much of anything.

Her smile is a little tight as she tells her new friend that she’s happy for her—and she thinks if _Theon Greyjoy_ can fall in love, surely Jon Snow can too.  
  


* * *

  
The car rumbles to a halt but Sansa doesn’t slide straight onto the backseat this time. 

“You know that new girl I mentioned, Jeyne?” she asks instead, her fingers tapping an uneven tune on her thighs.

Jon hums, drumming a tune himself on the steering wheel.

“Yeah?”

“Did you know she’s dating Theon Greyjoy?”

He raises a brow, turning to look at her.

“No, I didn’t.”

His tone is indecipherable, cool but a little guarded.

“He told her he loves her,” she thinks it strange when she says it outloud, because how can Theon love Jeyne but not tell Jon, one of his best friends about her? Then she remembers Jon probably hasn’t told him about her, either, and her gut twists again.

To her surprise, Jon _laughs._

“You think that’s funny?” she asks.

Jon shakes his head, running a tired hand over his face.

“Knowing Theon? Yeah, it’s funny,” he says, “you just tell little Jeyne to be careful.”

“Maybe she’s different.”

“I’m sure she’s real nice,” he says diplomatically, “but Theon is Theon.”

Sansa rolls her eyes because that doesn’t even make _sense._

“Jeyne says he kisses her and he holds her hand,” she says, crossing her arms and staring petulantly out the window, “in _public._ They go on dates and to the movies and there’s no sneaking around because they’re _real_ and they’re _normal_.”

She hears Jon’s sigh as he registers what she’s getting at.

“You’re annoyed because I don’t hold your hand?” he asks, his tone empty and blank, “or kiss you in public? You realise Theon probably has three other girls he’s doing all that with?”

Sansa shifts in her seat because _no,_ she didn’t know that, but it doesn’t change anything.

Except, Jon’s voice has a passionate edge when he says—

“I’ve not so much as _looked_ at another girl since this started with you. I’m always worried about you and I always want to be touching you and sometimes I can’t imagine myself with anyone else. Ever. What could be more real than that?”

She drags her gaze away from the window, looking at him heavily. He looks even more tortured and brooding than usual. Heat crawls from her chest to strangle her throat.

“I _wanted_ to tell Robb,” he reminds her quietly, “even though you make me feel like a traitor to him. Even though you make me question everything. Because all I want is for you to be happy and safe and because I never should have touched you, but I _can’t stop_.”

She stares at him, the confession winding around her heart. To worry about someone more than you worry about yourself, to care about their feelings and want their happiness more than your own—she thinks she knows what that’s called.

Theon might not really love Jeyne, _but_ —

“I think you love me," she says.

A strange, choked sound rumbles from Jon’s chest.

“Jesus, Sansa.”

Sansa smiles until her cheeks ache and he’s shaking his head tiredly but he’s not correcting her.

“You don’t have to say it,” she says quickly, quietly, “I felt it.”

He still doesn’t correct her as they slip into the backseat—and hope blossoms and spreads like sunlight inside her chest.


End file.
